Christina G. Rossetti

1830-1895.

Song.

W

hen I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress-tree:

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.

Song.

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.

Song.

T

wo doves upon the selfsame branch,

Two lilies on a single stem,

Two butterflies upon one flower:—

O happy they who look on them.

Who look upon them hand in hand

Flushed in the rosy summer light;

Who look upon them hand in hand

And never give a thought to night.

Three Seasons.

“A

cup for hope!” she said,

In springtime ere the bloom was old:

The crimson wine was poor and cold

By her mouth’s richer red.

“A cup for love!” how low,

How soft the words; and all the while

Her blush was rippling with a smile

Like summer after snow.

“A cup for memory!”

Cold cup that one must drain alone:

While autumn winds are up and moan

Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love:

Hope for fair morn, and love for day,

And memory for the evening gray

And solitary dove.