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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
Ground
Holy
Earth
Tread
Softly

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For there is no friend like a sister in calm or stormy weather To cheer one on the tedious way, to fetch one if one goes astray, to lift one if one totters down, to strengthen whilst one stands.
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The lilies say: Behold how we Preach without words of purity.
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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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Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I but when the trees bow down their heads, the wind is passing by.
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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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Where are the songs I used to know, Where are the notes I used to sing? I have forgotten everything I used to know so long ago. (The Key-Note)
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Come to me in the silence of the night, Come to me in the speaking silence of a dream. Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright as sunlight on a stream. Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years.
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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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Let bygones be bygones.
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And may you happy live, And long us bless.
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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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Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.
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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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To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome.
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My heart is like a singing bird.
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And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.
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Spring bursts today, For love is risen and all the earth's at play.
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Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes, work never begun.
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Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust, Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
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Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang When life was sweet because you call’d them sweet?
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