Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Christina Georgina Rossetti. 18301894779. Bride Song FROM ‘THE PRINCE’S PROGRESS’
TOO late for love, too late for joy, | |
Too late, too late! | |
You loiter’d on the road too long, | |
You trifled at the gate: | |
The enchanted dove upon her branch | 5 |
Died without a mate; | |
The enchanted princess in her tower | |
Slept, died, behind the grate; | |
Her heart was starving all this while | |
You made it wait. | 10 |
Ten years ago, five years ago, | |
One year ago, | |
Even then you had arrived in time, | |
Though somewhat slow; | |
Then you had known her living face | 15 |
Which now you cannot know: | |
The frozen fountain would have leap’d, | |
The buds gone on to blow, | |
The warm south wind would have awaked | |
To melt the snow. | 20 |
Is she fair now as she lies? | |
Once she was fair; | |
Meet queen for any kingly king, | |
With gold-dust on her hair. | |
Now there are poppies in her locks, | 25 |
White poppies she must wear; | |
Must wear a veil to shroud her face | |
And the want graven there: | |
Or is the hunger fed at length, | |
Cast off the care? | 30 |
We never saw her with a smile | |
Or with a frown; | |
Her bed seem’d never soft to her, | |
Though toss’d of down; | |
She little heeded what she wore, | 35 |
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; | |
We think her white brows often ached | |
Beneath her crown, | |
Till silvery hairs show’d in her locks | |
That used to be so brown. | 40 |
We never heard her speak in haste: | |
Her tones were sweet, | |
And modulated just so much | |
As it was meet: | |
Her heart sat silent through the noise | 45 |
And concourse of the street. | |
There was no hurry in her hands, | |
No hurry in her feet; | |
There was no bliss drew nigh to her, | |
That she might run to greet. | 50 |
You should have wept her yesterday, | |
Wasting upon her bed: | |
But wherefore should you weep to-day | |
That she is dead? | |
Lo, we who love weep not to-day, | 55 |
But crown her royal head. | |
Let be these poppies that we strew, | |
Your roses are too red: | |
Let be these poppies, not for you | |
Cut down and spread. | 60 |