Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall
behold |
With mine own eyes my King in his city
of gold ; |
Where the least of lambs is spotless
white in the fold, |
Where the least and last of saints in
spotless white is stoled, |
Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is
aureoled. |
O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to
mould in the mould, |
Shall I see you lift your heads, see
your cerements unrolled, |
See with these very eyes ? who now in
darkness and cold |
Tremble for the midnight cry, the
rapture, the tale untold, |
‘The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, his
Bride to enfold.’
|
Cold it is, my beloved, since your
funeral bell was tolled ; |
Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone
on the wold.
|
Christina Rossetti |
Classic Poems |
|
[ A Birthday ] [ A Pause of Thought ] [ Marvel of Marvels ] [ Rest ] [ Echo ] [ Twice ] [ Aloof ] [ Uphill ] [ Remember ] [ Song ] [ Somewhere or Other ] |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|