Quote

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.

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
Bird
Nest
Singing
Nests
Whose
Apple
Tree
Bent
Water
Apples
Heart
Thick
Like
Shoot
Pomegranates
Fruit
Boughs

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The downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.
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Open wide the windows of our spirits and fill us full of light open wide the door of our hearts, that we may receive and entertain Thee with all our powers of adoration.
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What is pink? A rose is pink By the fountain's brink.
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Christmas hath a darkness Brighter than the blazing noon Christmas hath a chillness Warmer than the heat of June, Christmas hath a beauty Lovelier than the world can show: For Christmas bringeth Jesus, Brought for us so low
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Love shall be our token love be yours and love be mine.
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In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone Snow had fallen, Snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.
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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.
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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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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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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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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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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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A pin has a head, but has no hair
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Spring bursts today, For love is risen and all the earth's at play.
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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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The rose saith in the dewy morn, I am most fair Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn.
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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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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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My heart is breaking for a little love
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