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Tread softly! All the earth is holy ground.

Christina Rossetti

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Christina Rossetti
Age: 64 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 5
Died: 1894
Died: December 29
Hymnwriter
Poet
Writer
London
England
Christina Georgina Rossetti
Christina G. Rossetti
Softly
Ground
Holy
Earth
Tread

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I watched a rose-bud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then when I thought it should be strong It opened at the matin hour And fell at even-song.
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Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:-- We are as they Like them we fade away As doth a leaf.
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When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me
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Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end.
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Rest, rest at the heart's core . . . till joy shall overtake.
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I wish I could remember the first day, First hour, first moment of your meeting me If bright or dim the season it might be Summer or winter for aught I can say. So, unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was i to see and to forsee, So dull to mark the budding of my tree That would not blossom, yet, for many a May.
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Love shall be our token love be yours and love be mine.
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And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.
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Christmas hath a beauty ... lovelier than the world can show.
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The rose saith in the dewy morn, I am most fair Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn.
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Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
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For there is no friend like a sister in calm or stormy weather.
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As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands Death is the fruit it bore.
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Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white.
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What is pink? A rose is pink By the fountain's brink.
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Hurt no living thing: Ladybird, nor butterfly, Nor moth with dusty wing.
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Why does the sea moan evermore? Shut out from heaven it makes its moan, It frets against the boundary shore All earth's full rivers cannot fill The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.
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Oh roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time.
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I might show facts as plain as day: but, since your eyes are blind, you'd say, 'Where? What?' and turn away.
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The loves that meet in Paradise shall cast out fear, And Paradise hath room for you and me and all.
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