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Poems of Christina Rossetti

Christina Georgina RossettiContentsGoblin Market, and Other Poems, 1862Goblin MarketIn the Round Tower at JhansiDream LandAt HomeA TriadLove from the NorthWinter RainCousin KateNoble SistersSpringThe …

Christina Rossetti: A Birthday

A BirthdayMy heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell Tha…

Christina Rossetti: A Chill

A Chill What can lambkins do All the keen night through? Nestle by their woolly mother The careful ewe. What can nestlings do In the nightly dew? Sleep beneath their mother's wing Ti…

Christina Rossetti: A Dream

A DreamSonnetOnce in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, Sporting at ease and courting full in view. W…

Christina Rossetti: A Portrait

A PortraitIShe gave up beauty in her tender youth, Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; She covered up her eyes lest they should gaze On vanity, and chose the bitter truth. Harsh t…

Christina Rossetti: A Testimony

A TestimonyI said of laughter: it is vain. Of mirth I said: what profits it? Therefore I found a book, and writ Therein how ease and also pain, How health and sickness, every one Is vanity…

Christina Rossetti: A Triad

A TriadSonnetThree sang of love together: one with lips Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow, Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips; And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow…

Christina Rossetti: Advent

AdventThis Advent moon shines cold and clear, These Advent nights are long; Our lamps have burned year after year And still their flame is strong. 'Watchman, what of the night?' we cry, …

Christina Rossetti: Amen

AmenIt is over. What is over? Nay, now much is over truly!— Harvest days we toiled to sow for; Now the sheaves are gathered newly, Now the wheat is garnered duly.It is finished. What is …

Christina Rossetti: An End

An EndLove, strong as Death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers: A green turf at his head; And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours.He was…