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Sudden Light I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the light around the shore.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Age: 53 †
Born: 1828
Born: May 12
Died: 1882
Died: April 9
Illustrator
Painter
Poet
Translator
London
England
Dante G. Rossetti
D. G. Rossetti
Dante Rossetti
Dante Gabriel Rosetti
D. G. Rosetti
Gabriel Charles Rossetti
Dante Gabriel Charles Rossetti
Gabriel Charles Dante Rossetti
Rossetti
Rosseti
d.g. rossetti
Sweet
Doors
Sighing
Beyond
Keen
Sound
Shore
Tell
Sudden
Cannot
Grass
Around
Smell
Light
Door

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And Love, our light at night and shade at noon,Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns awayAll shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.
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Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky.
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You have been mine before - How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar, your neck turned so, Some veil did fall, - I knew it all of yore.
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Beauty like hers is genius.
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Love is the last relay and ultimate outposts of eternity.
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It is beautiful, the world, and life itself. I am glad I have lived.
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Unto the man of yearning thought And aspiration, to do nought Is in itself almost an act.
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If God in his wisdom have brought closeThe day when I must die,That day by water or fire or airMy feet shall fall in the destined snareWherever my road may lie.
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Tell me now in what hidden way isLady Flora the lovely Roman?Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,Neither of them the fairer woman?Where is Echo, beheld of no man,Only heard on river and mere-She whose beauty was more than human?-But where are the snows of yester-year?
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Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn.
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Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
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Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself alone, But as the meaning of all things that are.
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The sea hath no king but God alone.
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From perfect grief there need not beWisdom or even memoryOne thing then learned remains to me -The woodspurge has a cup of three.
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I plucked a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair.
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The Wombat is a Joy, a Triumph, a Delight, a Madness!
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Was it a friend or foe that spread these lies Nay, who but infants question in such wise, twas one of my most intimate enemies.
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At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:And as the last slow sudden drops are shedFrom sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.
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