Quote

The Bourne Underneath the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers: There we shall not count the hours By the shadows as they pass. Youth and health will be but vain, Beauty reckoned of no worth: There a very little girth Can hold round what once the earth Seemed too narrow to contain.

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
Hours
Flower
Rounds
Reckoned
Sound
Youth
Flowers
Underneath
Living
Worth
Grass
Showers
Earth
Health
Vain
Contain
Littles
Hold
Seemed
Shadows
Little
Shall
Pass
Narrow
Life
Growing
Deeper
Count
Girth
Beauty
Shadow
Round
Bourne

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Spring bursts today, For love is risen and all the earth's at play.
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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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Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes, work never begun.
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Love shall be our token love be yours and love be mine.
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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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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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Rest, rest at the heart's core . . . till joy shall overtake.
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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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Be the green grass above me, with showers and dewdrops wet and if thou wilt, remember, and if thou wilt, forget.
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Oh that it were with me As with the flower Blooming on its own tree For butterfly and bee Its summer morns: That I might bloom mine hour A rose in spite of thorns. Oh that my work were done As birds' that soar Rejoicing in the sun: That when my time is run And daylight too, I so might rest once more Cool with refreshing dew.
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Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth,Love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth,Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white,Love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight.Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.
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Spring is when life's alive in everything.
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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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All earth's full rivers can not fillThe sea that drinking thirsteth still.
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What is pink? A rose is pink By the fountain's brink.
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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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Not as she is, but as she fills his dream
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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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And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.
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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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