Victorian Poems (1896)

The San Francisco Call September 13, 1896

A Birthday

By Christina Rossetti

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart is like an apple tee

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleur-de-lis;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

 

From the Portuguese

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways–

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of light

For the ends of being and ideal grace;

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle light

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise;

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs and with my childhood’s faith;

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints–I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! and if God choose

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

At Rest

There is silence in the cottage,

For the toiler’s tasks are o’er,

Weary eyes have drooped in slumber

That will open nevermore;

White, cold hands are softly folded

On the pallid dreamer’s breast,

And the angels hover nigh her,

For her heart is stilled–at rest.

Rest, for the hours are gone.

And now the time has come when thou canst lie

Tranquil, peaceful ‘neath God’s starry sky.

Rest on, thou heart, rest on.

Lo, the thin, worn hands were tired;

They had labored on so long,

And the eyes were dimmed with weeping

O’er the world’s dark sin and wrong,

And the heart was weary–weary

With its sorrows cruel and deep.

Now its cares are all forgotten

In that calm, unbroken sleep.

Sleep, sleep thou, wearied one,

Life’s long, dull day has died within the west,

Its changeful hours, its lingering moments done.

Sleep, sleep, in soft, sweet rest.

B. C.

 

Dream-Peddlery

By Thomas Beddoes

If there were dreams to sell

What would you buy?

Some cost a passing bell;

Some a light sigh,

That shakes from life’s fresh crown

Only a rose leaf down,

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rang the bell,

What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,

With bowers high

Shadowy, my woes to still

Until I die.

Such pearl from life’s fresh crown

Fain would I shake me down

Were dreams to have at will

This would best heal my ill,

This I would buy.

But there were dreams to sell

I’ll didst thou buy;

Life is a dream they tell,

Waking, to die.

Dreaming a dream to prize

Is wishing ghosts to rise,

And, if I had the spell

To call the buried well,

Which one would I?

If there are ghosts to raise

What shall I call,

Out of hell’s murky haze,

Heaven’s blue pall?

Raise my loved, long-lost boy

To lead me to his joy–

There are no ghosts to raise,

Out of death leads no ways,

Vain is the call;

Know’st thou not ghosts to sue

No love thou hast,

Else lie as I will do,

And breathe thy last.

So out of life’s fresh crown

Fall like a rose leaf down,

Thus are the ghosts to woo:

Thus are all dreams made true,

Ever to last!

 

Song

By Christina Rossetti

O roses for the flush of youth,

And laurel for the perfect prime;

But pluck an ivy branch for me,

Grown old before my time.

O violets for the grave of youth,

And bay for those dead in their prime;

Give me the withered leaves I chose

Before in the old time.

 

From the Portuguese

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning

First time he kissed me he but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,

And ever since it grew more clean and white…

Slow to world’s greetings: quick with its “Oh, list,”

When angels speak A ring of amethyst

I could not wear here plainer to my light

Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

The first and sought the forehead, and half missed,

Half falling on the hair, Oh, beyond meed!

That was the chrism of love with love’s own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness did precede.

The third upon my lips was folded down

In perfect purple proud and said, “My love, my own.”

 

The Mind

Alas, though sweet and much, this is not all

That heavenly joy could be could I but choose;

For, drifted on the storm, the flowers lose

Their path and may ‘mid ugly briars fall;

And, always on the ground, their joy must pall.

No, let me as a bird with morning’s dews

Arise each lovely day, and let the muse

Of rapturous song be in my heart to call

Forth joy and life in every woeful breast;

Give me the wings, volition’s slaves, to bear

Me ever where the summer’s day may be.

What though I’ve knowledge none, ’twill be a rest

To lay the burden down in God’s sweet air

To live and sing for all eternity.

From “Out of a Silver Flute,” by Philip Verril Mighels.

 

Morning Serenade

From the French of Victor Hugo

By Tobu Dutt

Still barred thy doors!–the far East glows,

The morning wind blows fresh and free;

Should not the hour that wakes the rose

Awaken also thee?

No longer sleep,

Oh listen now!

I wait and weep,

But where are thou?

All look for thee, Love, Light and Song;

Light in the sky, deep red above,

Song in the lark of pinion strong

And in my heart true Love.

No longer sleep,

Oh, listen now!

I wait and weep,

But where are thou?

Apart we miss our nature’s goal,

Why strive to cheat our destinies?

Was not my love made for thy soul?

Thy beauty for mine eyes?

No longer sleep,

Oh, listen now!

I wait and weep

But where art thou?