Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.

From ‘The Blessed Damozel’

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)

THE BLESSED damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;

Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

No wrought flowers did adorn,

But a white rose of Mary’s gift,

For service meetly worn;

Her hair that lay along her back

Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseemed she scarce had been a day

One of God’s choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers;

Albeit, to them she left, her day

Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years.

… Yet now, and in this place,

Surely she leaned o’er me—her hair

Fell all about my face….

Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.

The whole year sets apace.)…

Heard hardly, some of her new friends

Amid their loving games

Spake evermore among themselves

Their virginal chaste names;

And the souls mounting up to God

Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped

Out of the circling charm;

Until her bosom must have made

The bar she leaned on warm,

And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm….

The sun was gone now; the curled moon

Was like a little feather

Fluttering far down the gulf; and now

She spoke through the still weather.

Her voice was like the voice the stars

Had when they sang together.

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird’s song,

Strove not her accents there,

Fain to be hearkened? When those bells

Possessed the mid-day air,

Strove not her steps to reach my side

Down all the echoing stair?)

‘I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come’, she said.

‘Have I not prayed in Heaven?—on earth,

Lord, Lord, has he not pray’d?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

And shall I feel afraid?

‘When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,

I’ll take his hand and go with him

To the deep wells of light;

We will step down as to a stream,

And bathe there in God’s sight.

‘We two will stand beside that shrine,

Occult, withheld, untrod,

Whose lamps are stirred continually

With prayer sent up to God;

And see our old prayers, granted, melt

Each like a little cloud….

‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:

Then will I lay my cheek

To his, and tell about our love,

Not once abashed or weak:

And the dear Mother will approve

My pride, and let me speak.

‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

To Him round whom all souls

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads

Bowed with their aureoles:

And angels meeting us shall sing

To their citherns and citoles.

‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord

Thus much for him and me:—

Only to live as once on earth

With Love,—only to be,

As then awhile, for ever now

Together, I and he.’

She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild,—

‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased.

The light thrilled towards her, fill’d

With angels in strong level flight.

Her eyes prayed, and she smil’d.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path

Was vague in distant spheres:

And then she cast her arms along

The golden barriers,

And laid her face against her hands,

And wept. (I heard her tears.)