Poet Christina Rossetti

Christina Rossetti

Christina Rossetti Poems

  • 251.  
    “Thou whom I love, for whom I died,
    Lovest thou Me, My bride?”-Low on my knees I love Thee, Lord,
  • 252.  
    Lovely Spring,
    A brief sweet thing,Is swift on the wing;
  • 253.  
    Underneath the growing grass,
    Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers:
  • 254.  
    Is this the Face that thrills with awe
    Seraphs who veil their face above?Is this the Face without a flaw,
  • 255.  
    I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
    If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
  • 256.  

  • 257.  
    The upland flocks grew starved and thinned:
    Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambsWhose milkless mothers butted them,
  • 258.  
    I bore with thee long weary days and nights,
    Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,
  • 259.  
    Give me the lowest place: not that I dare
    Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast diedThat I might live and share
  • 260.  
    Like flowers sequestered from the sun
    And wind of summer, day by dayI dwindled paler, whilst my hair
  • 261.  
    Who calleth?-Thy Father calleth,
    Run, O Daughter, to wait on Him:He Who chasteneth but for a season
  • 262.  

  • 263.  
    Till all sweet gums and juices flow,
    Till the blossom of blossoms blow,The long hours go and come and go,
  • 264.  
    How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we
    Play cards together, you invariably, However the pack parts,
  • 265.  
    Inner not outer, without gnash of teeth
    Or weeping, save quiet sobs of some who pray And feel the Everlasting Arms beneath,-
  • 266.  
    By day she wooes me, soft, exceeding fair:
    But all night as the moon so changeth she; Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy,
  • 267.  

  • 268.  
    “A cup for hope!” she said,
    In springtime ere the bloom was old:The crimson wine was poor and cold
  • 269.  
    All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine,
    All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed;Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage:
  • 270.  
    Long have I longed, till I am tired
    Of longing and desire;Farewell my points in vain desired,
  • 271.  
    She sitteth still who used to dance,
    She weepeth sore and more and more-Let us sit with thee weeping sore,
  • 272.  
    “Arise, depart, for this is not your rest.”
    Oh, burden of all burdens,-still to arise And still depart, nor rest in any wise!
  • 273.  
    O pleasant eventide!
    Clouds on the western sideGrow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun:
  • 274.  

  • 275.  
    “The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.”

  • 276.  
    When will the day bring its pleasure?
    When will the night bring its rest?Reaper and gleaner and thresher
  • 277.  
    Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,
    Ah, woe is me for glory that is past: Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,
  • 278.  
    I marked where lovely Venus and her court
    With song and dance and merry laugh went by; Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly,
  • 279.  
    I would have gone; God bade me stay:
    I would have worked; God bade me rest.He broke my will from day to day,
  • 280.  
    What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
    Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.
  • 281.  
    Why has Spring one syllable less
    Than any its fellow season?There may be some other reason,
  • 282.  
    “O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me?
    Me whom thou settest in a barren land, Hungry and thirsty on the burning sand,
  • 283.  
    God strengthen me to bear myself;
    That heaviest weight of all to bear,Inalienable weight of care.
  • 284.  
    Lord, if I love Thee and Thou lovest me,
    Why need I any more these toilsome days; Why should I not run singing up Thy ways
  • 285.  
    Pardon the faults in me,
    For the love of years ago: Good by.
  • 286.  
    Every valley drinks,
    Every dell and hollow:Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,
  • 287.  
    I dreamed and did not seek: to-day I seek
    Who can no longer dream;But now am all behindhand, waxen weak,
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.


Read complete poem

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