Poet Christina Rossetti

Christina Rossetti

Christina Rossetti Poems

  • 101.  
    What is pink? a rose is pink
    By the fountain's brink.What is red? a poppy's red
  • 102.  
    When I am dead, my dearest,
    Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,
  • 103.  
    Who has seen the wind?
    Neither I nor you:But when the leaves hang trembling
  • 104.  
    Will you be there? my yearning heart has cried:
    Ah me, my love, my love, shall I be there, To sit down in your glory and to share
  • 105.  
    I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
    Perhaps some day, who knows?But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,
  • 106.  
    The irresponsive silence of the land,
    The irresponsive sounding of the sea, Speak both one message of one sense to me:-
  • 107.  
    Too late for love, too late for joy,
    Too late, too late!You loiter'd on the road too long,
  • 108.  
    Safe where I cannot die yet,
    Safe where I hope to lie too,Safe from the fume and the fret;
  • 109.  
    Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold
    With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,
  • 110.  
    I took my heart in my hand
    (O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,
  • 111.  
    There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams;
    What seems is not always as it seems.
  • 112.  
    It's a year almost that I have not seen her:
    Oh, last summer green things were greener,Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.
  • 113.  
    “Croak, croak, croak,”
    Thus the Raven spoke,Perched on his crooked tree
  • 114.  
    Through the vales to my love!
    To the happy small nest of homeGreen from basement to roof;
  • 115.  
    I will accept thy will to do and be,
    Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,Thy will at least to love, that burns within
  • 116.  
    “Love brought Me down; and cannot love make thee
    Carol for joy to Me?Hear cheerful robin carol from his tree,
  • 117.  
    What can lambkins do
    All the keen night through?Nestle by their woolly mother,
  • 118.  
    In the bleak mid-winter
    Frosty wind made moan,Earth stood hard as iron,
  • 119.  
    Why were you born when the snow was falling?
    You should have come to the cuckoo's calling,Or when grapes are green in the cluster,
  • 120.  
    The year stood at its equinox
    And bluff the North was blowing,A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
  • 121.  
    The soonest mended, nothing said;
    And help may rise from east or west;But my two hands are lumps of lead,
  • 122.  
    “And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.”

  • 123.  
    Woman was made for man's delight,-
    Charm, O woman! Be not afraid!His shadow by day, his moon by night,
  • 124.  
    A night was near, a day was near;
    Between a day and nightI heard sweet voices calling clear,
  • 125.  
    Never on this side of the grave again,
    On this side of the river,On this side of the garner of the grain,
  • 126.  
    Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
    Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
  • 127.  
    I looked for that which is not, nor can be,
    And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth But years must pass before a hope of youth
  • 128.  
    Strike the bells wantonly,
    Tinkle tinkle well;Bring me wine, bring me flowers,
  • 129.  
    At morn I plucked a rose and gave it Thee,
    A rose of joy and happy love and peace, A rose with scarce a thorn:
  • 130.  
    I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest,
    Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast,For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.
  • 131.  
    A smile because the nights are short!
    And every morning brings such pleasureOf sweet love-making, harmless sport:
  • 132.  
    While we slumber and sleep,
    The sun leaps up from the deep,-Daylight born at the leap,-
  • 133.  
    Live all thy sweet life through
    Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,Drop down thine evening dew
  • 134.  
    I said of laughter, it is vain.
    Of mirth I said, what profits it? Therefore I found a book, and writ
  • 135.  
    On the wind of January
    Down flits the snow,Travelling from the frozen North
  • 136.  
    This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
    These Advent nights are long;Our lamps have burned year after year,
  • 137.  
    Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God?
    Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love? Or King, Who art my very Spouse above?
  • 138.  
    As eager home-bound traveller to the goal,
    Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main,Or martyr panting for an aureole,
  • 139.  
    They are flocking from the East
    And the West,They are flocking from the North
  • 140.  
    All.

  • 141.  
    It is over. What is over?
    Nay, how much is over truly!-Harvest days we toiled to sow for;
  • 142.  
    “O where are you going with your love-locks flowing,
    On the west wind blowing along this valley track?”“The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
  • 143.  
    I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree,
    And wore them all that evening in my hair:Then in due season when I went to see
  • 144.  
    Spring bursts to-day,
    For Christ is risen and all the earth's at play.
  • 145.  
    Love, strong as Death, is dead.
    Come, let us make his bedAmong the dying flowers:
  • 146.  
    Life flows down to death; we cannot bind
    That current that it should not flee:Life flows down to death, as rivers find
  • 147.  
    In my Autumn garden I was fain
    To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
  • 148.  
    …”Una selva oscura.”-Dante.

  • 149.  
    If I might see another Spring
    I'd not plant summer flowers and wait:I'd have my crocuses at once,
  • 150.  
    When I was dead, my spirit turned
    To seek the much-frequented houseI passed the door, and saw my friends
Total 287 poems written by Christina Rossetti

Poem of the day

On A Fork Of Byron's
 by James Brunton Stephens

Like any other fork.'No mark you meet with
To point some psychological conceit with.
An ordinary fork. A fork to eat with.

No individuality of fashion:
No stamp of frenzy fine, or poet-passion;
An article in no respect Parnassian.

...

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