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Hurt no living thing: Ladybird, nor butterfly, Nor moth with dusty wing.

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
Thing
Moths
Insects
Wing
Butterfly
Wings
Hurt
Ladybugs
Animal
Moth
Living
Dusty

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Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white.
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Christmas hath a beauty ... lovelier than the world can show.
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And may you happy live, And long us bless.
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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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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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The downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.
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Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago
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To me it seems our duty towards the Bible is to obey its teaching in faith. I do not think we are bound to understand or account for all its utterances.
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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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Spring is when life's alive in everything.
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My heart is like a singing bird.
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Where innocent bright-eyes daisies are With blades of grass between, Each daisy stands up like a star Out of a sky of green.
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Choose love not in the shallows but in the deep.
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A pin has a head, but has no hair
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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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Let bygones be bygones.
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Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes, work never begun.
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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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Rest, rest at the heart's core . . . till joy shall overtake.
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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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