Conference Between Christ, the Saints, and the Soul


by Christina Rossetti
I am pale with sick desire,
  For my heart is far away
From this world's fitful fire
  And this world's waning day;
In a dream it overleaps
  A world of tedious ills
To where the sunshine sleeps
  On th' everlasting hills.
  Say the Saints—There Angels ease us
    Glorified and white.
  They say—We rest in Jesus,
    Where is not day nor night.
My Soul saith—I have sought
  For a home that is not gained,
I have spent yet nothing bought,
  Have laboured but not attained;
My pride strove to rise and grow,
  And hath but dwindled down;
My love sought love, and lo!
  Hath not attained its crown.
  Say the Saints—Fresh Souls increase us,
    None languish nor recede.
  They say—We love our Jesus,
    And He loves us indeed.
I cannot rise above,
  I cannot rest beneath,
I cannot find out Love,
  Nor escape from Death;
Dear hopes and joys gone by
  Still mock me with a name;
My best belovèd die
  And I cannot die with them.
  Say the Saints—No deaths decrease us,
    Where our rest is glorious.
  They say—We live in Jesus,
    Who once dièd for us.
Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings
  And pants to fly away
Up to immortal Things
  In the Heavenly day:
Yet she flags and almost faints;
  Can such be meant for me?
Come and see—say the Saints.
  Saith Jesus—Come and see.
  Say the Saints—His Pleasures please us
    Before God and the Lamb.
  Come and taste My Sweets—saith Jesus—
    Be with Me where I am.