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My heart is breaking for a little love

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
Littles
Little
Heart
Love
Breaking

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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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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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She cried, Laura, up the garden, Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices Squeezed from goblin fruits for you, Goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me Laura, make much of me For your sake I have braved the glen And had to do with goblin merchant men.
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A pin has a head, but has no hair
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And may you happy live, And long us bless.
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Love came down at Christmas, Love all lovely, Love Divine Love was born at Christmas Star and angels gave the sign.
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For I am bound with fleshly bands, Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope I strain my heart, I stretch my hands, And catch at hope.
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The lilies say: Behold how we Preach without words of purity.
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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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My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit.
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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 have no wit, no words, no tears My heart within me like a stone Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears Look right, look left, I dwell alone I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief No everlasting hills I see My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me.
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It is not the deed we do Though the deed be never so fair, But the love that the dear Lord looketh for, Hidden with lovely care In the heart of the deed so fair.
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We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?
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My heart is like a singing bird.
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When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me
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Spring bursts today, For love is risen and all the earth's at play.
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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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What is green? The grass is green, With small flowers between. What is violet? Clouds are violet In the summer twilight. What is orange? Why, an orange, Just an orange!
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Why one day in the country Is worth a month in town Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere.
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