Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature K (Delaware Museum, first
revise, copy 2)Dante Gabriel Rossetti1Text courtesy of The Delaware Art MuseumPoems. A New EditionDante Gabriel RossettiF. S. EllisStrangeways and WaldenLondon1881 May 15 (circa)proof 129-1441DGRK8Library, Delaware Art Museum10 point; 6 point leading
roman
222 cm3.8 cm2 cm2.5 cm19 x 12.8cm (crown octavo)
Commentary
Introduction
This is copy 2 of the first revise proof of Signature K of the 1881
<hi rend="i">Poems</hi>
.
Four copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the
Delaware Art Museum. They include a corrected first author's proof, the printer's duplicate of the first
proof, and two uncorrected first revises, copy 1 and this copy.
Printing History
Reception History
Historical
Literary
Translation
Autobiographical
Bibliographic
K Bleating before a barking dog; And the old streets come peering through Another night that London knew; And all as ghostlike as the lamps. So on the wings of day decamps My last night's frolic. Glooms begin To shiver off as lights creep in Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to, And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue,— Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight, Like a wise virgin's, all one night! And in the alcove coolly spread Glimmers with dawn your empty bed; And yonder your fair face I see Reflected lying on my knee, Where teems with first foreshadowings Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings: And on your bosom all night worn Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn But dies not yet this summer morn. And now without, as if some word Had called upon them that they heard, The London sparrows far and nigh Clamour together suddenly; And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake Here in their song his part must take, Because here too the day doth break. And somehow in myself the dawn Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn Strikes greyly on her. Let her sleep. But will it wake her if I heap These cushions thus beneath her head Where my knee was? No,—there's your bed, My Jenny, while you dream. And there I lay among your golden hair Perhaps the subject of your dreams, These golden coins. For still one deems That Jenny's flattering sleep confers New magic on the magic purse,— Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies! Between the threads fine fumes arise And shape their pictures in the brain. There roll no streets in glare and rain, Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk; But delicately sighs in musk The homage of the dim boudoir; Or like a palpitating star Thrilled into song, the opera-night Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light; Or at the carriage-window shine Rich wares for choice; or, free to dine, Whirls through its hour of health (divine For her) the concourse of the Park. And though in the discounted dark Her functions there and here are one, Beneath the lamps and in the sun There reigns at least the acknowledged belle Apparelled beyond parallel. Ah Jenny, yes, we know your dreams. For even the Paphian Venus seems A goddess o'er the realms of love, When silver-shrined in shadowy grove: Aye, or let offerings nicely plac'd But hide Priapus to the waist, And whoso looks on him shall see An eligible deity. Why, Jenny, waking here alone May help you to remember one, Though all the memory's long outworn Of many a double-pillowed morn. I think I see you when you wake, And rub your eyes for me, and shake My gold, in rising, from your hair, A Danaë for a moment there. Jenny, my love rang true! for still Love at first sight is vague, until That tinkling makes him audible. And must I mock you to the last, Ashamed of my own shame,—aghast Because some thoughts not born amiss Rose at a poor fair face like this? Well, of such thoughts so much I know: In my life, as in hers, they show, By a far gleam which I may near, A dark path I can strive to clear. Only one kiss. Goodbye, my dear.
<hi rend="c">THE PORTRAIT</hi>.This is her picture as she was: It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone I gaze until she seems to stir,— Until mine eyes almost aver That now, even now, the sweet lips part To breathe the words of the sweet heart:— And yet the earth is over her. Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray That makes the prison-depths more rude,— The drip of water night and day Giving a tongue to solitude. Yet only this, of love's whole prize, Remains; save what in mournful guise Takes counsel with my soul alone,— Save what is secret and unknown, Below the earth, above the skies. In painting her I shrined her face Mid mystic trees, where light falls in Hardly at all; a covert place Where you might think to find a din Of doubtful talk, and a live flame Wandering, and many a shape whose name Not itself knoweth, and old dew, And your own footsteps meeting you, And all things going as they came. A deep dim wood; and there she stands As in that wood that day: for so Was the still movement of her hands And such the pure line's gracious flow. And passing fair the type must seem, Unknown the presence and the dream. 'Tis she: though of herself, alas! Less than her shadow on the grass Or than her image in the stream. That day we met there, I and she One with the other all alone; And we were blithe; yet memory Saddens those hours, as when the moon Looks upon daylight. And with her I stooped to drink the spring-water, Athirst where other waters sprang; And where the echo is, she sang,— My soul another echo there. But when that hour my soul won strength For words whose silence wastes and kills, Dull raindrops smote us, and at length Thundered the heat within the hills. That eve I spoke those words again Beside the pelted window-pane; And there she hearkened what I said, With under-glances that surveyed The empty pastures blind with rain. Next day the memories of these things, Like leaves through which a bird has flown, Still vibrated with Love's warm wings; Till I must make them all my own And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease Of talk and sweet long silences, She stood among the plants in bloom At windows of a summer room, To feign the shadow of the trees. And as I wrought, while all above And all around was fragrant air, In the sick burthen of my love It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there Beat like a heart among the leaves. O heart that never beats nor heaves, In that one darkness lying still, What now to thee my love's great will Or the fine web the sunshine weaves? For now doth daylight disavow Those days,—nought left to see or hear. Only in solemn whispers now At night-time these things reach mine ear; When the leaf-shadows at a breath Shrink in the road, and all the heath, Forest and water, far and wide, In limpid starlight glorified, Lie like the mystery of death. Last night at last I could have slept, And yet delayed my sleep till dawn, Still wandering. Then it was I wept: For unawares I came upon Those glades where once she walked with me: And as I stood there suddenly, All wan with traversing the night, Upon the desolate verge of light Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears The beating heart of Love's own breast,— Where round the secret of all spheres All angels lay their wings to rest,— How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, When, by the new birth borne abroad Throughout the music of the suns, It enters in her soul at once And knows the silence there for God! Here with her face doth memory sit Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline, Till other eyes shall look from it, Eyes of the spirit's Palestine, Even than the old gaze tenderer: While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side by side, Like tombs of pilgrims that have died About the Holy Sepulchre.
<hi rend="c">MY SISTER'S SLEEP</hi>.She fell asleep on Christmas Eve: At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain nought else might yet relieve. Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. Without, there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup. Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round. I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights. Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs. Our mother rose from where she sat: Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that. ‘Glory unto the Newly Born!’ So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas Day, Though it would still be long till morn. Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose. With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they Have broken her long watched-for rest! She stopped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word: There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little space. Our mother bowed herself and wept: And both my arms fell, and I said, ‘God knows I knew that she was dead.’ And there, all white, my sister slept. Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock We said, ere the first quarter struck, ‘Christ's blessing on the newly born!’
<hi rend="c">DOWN STREAM</hi>.Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river-reaches wind, The whispering trees accept the breeze, The ripple's cool and kind: With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores, With rippling laughters gay, With white arms bared to ply the oars, On last year's first of May. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's brimmed with rain, Through close-met banks and parted banks Now near now far again: With parting tears caressed to smiles, With meeting promised soon, With every sweet vow that beguiles, On last year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's flecked with foam, 'Neath shuddering clouds that hang in shrouds And lost winds wild for home: With infant wailings at the breast, With homeless steps astray, With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest On this year's first of May. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The summer river flows With doubled flight of moons by night And lilies' deep repose: With lo! beneath the moon's white stare A white face not the moon, With lilies meshed in tangled hair, On this year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote A troth was given and riven, From heart's trust grew one life to two, Two lost lives cry to Heaven: With banks spread calm to meet the sky, With meadows newly mowed, The harvest-paths of glad July, The sweet school-children's road.
<hi rend="c">A LAST CONFESSION</hi>.<lb/>(<hi rend="i">Regno
Lombardo-Veneto</hi>, 1848.)* * * * * * * * *Our Lombard country-girls along the coast Wear daggers in their garters; for they know That they might hate another girl to death Or meet a German lover. Such a knife I bought her, with a hilt of horn and pearl. Father, you cannot know of all my thoughts That day in going to meet her,—that last day For the last time, she said;—of all the love And all the hopeless hope that she might change And go back with me. Ah! and everywhere, At places we both knew along the road, Some fresh shape of herself as once she was Grew present at my side; until it seemed—