Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
THE blessàd damozel leand out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the
Of waters stilld at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Marys
For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseemd she scarce had been a day
One of Gods choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.
(To one, it is ten years of years.
... Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leand oer meher
Fell all about my face....
Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)
It was the rampart of Gods house
That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer
The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.
It lies in Heaven, across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night
flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge.
Around her, lovers, newly met
Mid deathless loves acclaims,
Spoke evermore among themselves
And the souls mounting up to God
Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bowd herself and stoopd
Out of the circling charm;
Until her bosom must have
The bar she leand on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep
Along her bended arm.
From the fixd place of Heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds.
Her gaze still strove
Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their
The sun was gone now; the curld moon
Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and
She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
Had when they sang together.
(Ah sweet! Even now, in that birds song,
Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be hearkened?
When those bells
Possessd the mid-day air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side
Down all the echoing
I wish that he were come to me:
For he will come, she said.
Have I not prayd in Heaven?on
Lord, Lord, has he not prayd?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
And shall I feel afraid?
When round his head the aureole clings,
And he is clothed in white,
Ill take his hand and go
To the deep wells of light;
As unto a stream we will step down,
And bathe there in Gods sight.
We two will stand beside that shrine,
Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps are stirred continually
prayer sent up to God;
And see our old prayers, granted, melt
Each like a little cloud.
We two will lie i the shadow of
That living mystic tree,
Within whose secret growth the Dove
sometimes felt to be,
While every leaf that His plumes touch
Saith His Name audibly.
And I myself will teach to him,
I myself, lying so,
The songs I sing here; which his voice
pause in, hushd and slow,
And find some knowledge at each pause,
Or some new thing to know.
(Alas! We two, we two, thou sayst!
Yea, one wast thou with me
That once of old. But shall
To endless unity
The soul whose likeness with thy soul
Was but its love for thee?)
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