Selected Poems (Penguin Classics)
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A captivating selection of enduring verse by one of the Victorian era's most beloved poets
Christina Rossetti is unique among Victorian poets for the sheer range of her subject matter and the variety of her verse forms. Weaving connections between love and death, triumph and loss, heavenly joys and earthly pleasures, Rossetti's poems startle the imagination with their extraordinary truth, beauty, and intensity. This first fully annotated collection, based on the definitive texts, brings together love lyrics, sonnets, hymns, ballads, the vast body of her devotional poetry, and fantasy poems like Goblin Market, Rossetti's terrifyingly vivid verses for children.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
fail; Love is sweet, use today.” While the song swept by, beseeching and meek, Up rose the Prince with a flush on his cheek, Up he rose to stir and to seek, Going forth in the joy of his strength; Strong of limb if of purpose weak, Starting at length. Forth he set in the breezy morn, Across green fields of nodding corn, As goodly a Prince as ever was born, Carolling with the carolling lark;— Sure his bride will be won and worn, Ere fall of the dark. So light his step, so merry his
says: “Safe from waters that seek the sea — Cold waters by rugged ways— Safe with me.” While overhead bird whistles to bird, And round about plays a gamesome herd: “Safe with us”—some take up the word— “Safe with us, dear lord and friend: All the sweeter if long deferred Is rest in the end.” Had he stayed to weigh and to scan, He had been more or less than a man: He did what a young man can, Spoke of toil and an arduous way— Toil tomorrow, while golden ran The sands of today. Slip
thro’ the noise 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. “You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep today That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not today, 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.” MEMORY. I I nursed it
its small way. Our neighbouring gentry reared The good old-fashioned crops, And made old-fashioned boasts Of what John Bull would do If Frenchman Frog appeared, And drank old-fashioned toasts, And made old-fashioned bows To my Lady at the Hall. My Lady at the Hall Is grander than they all: Hers is the oldest name In all the neighbourhood; But the race must die with her Tho’ she’s a lofty dame, For she’s unmarried still. Poor people say she’s good And has an open hand As any in
tempest rage around and rage above, Tempest beyond tempest, far as eye can see: Such is Love, That it simply heeds its mourning inward Dove; Dove which craves contented for a home to be Set amid the myrtles or an olive grove. Dove-eyed Love contemplates the Twelve-fruited Tree, Marks the bowing palms which worship as they move; Simply sayeth, simply prayeth, “All for me!” Such is Love. Safe where I cannot lie yet, Safe where I hope to lie too, Safe from the fume and the fret; You,