Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature O (Delaware Museum, author's first proof) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Text courtesy of The Delaware Art Museum Poems. A New Edition Dante Gabriel Rossetti F. S. Ellis Strangeways and Walden London 1881 May 16 (circa) proof 193-208 1 DGR O8 Library, Delaware Art Museum 10 point; 6 point leading roman 22 2 cm 3.8 cm 2 cm 2.5 cm 19 x 12.8cm (crown octavo) Commentary
Introduction

This is DGR's copy of the first proof of Signature O of the 1881 <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> . It has one correction (on page 194).

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Three copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. They include this first (author's) proof, a printer's duplicate, and a final proof incorporating the correction on pager 194.

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

O Amelotte still was on her knees As she had kneeled to pray. Deeming her sister swooned, she thought, At first, some succour to have brought; But Alo’se rocked, as one distraught. She would have pushed the lattice wide To gain what breeze might be; But marking that no leaf once beat The outside casement, it seemed meet Not to bring in more scent and heat So she said only: ‘Alo’se, Sister, when happened it At any time that the bride came To ill, or spoke in fear of shame, When speaking first the bridegroom's name?’ A bird had out its song and ceased Ere the bride spoke. At length She said: ‘The name is as the thing:— Sin hath no second christening, And shame is all that shame can bring. ‘In divers places more than once many an while I would have told thee this; But faintness took me, or a fit Like fever. God would not permit That I should change thine eyes with it. ‘Yet once I spoke, hadst thou but heard:— That time we wandered out All the sun's hours, but missed our way When evening darkened, and so lay The whole night covered up in hay. ‘At last my face was hidden: so, Having God's hint, I paused Not long; but drew myself more near Where thou wast laid, and shook off fear, And whispered quick into thine ear ‘Something of the whole tale. At first I lay and bit my hair For the sore silence thou didst keep: Till, as thy breath came long and deep, I knew that thou hadst been asleep. ‘The moon was covered, but the stars Lasted till morning broke. Awake, thou told'st me that thy dream Had been of me,—that all did seem At jar,—but that it was a dream. ‘I knew God's hand and might not speak. After that night I kept Silence and let the record swell: Till now there is much more to tell Which must be told out ill or well.’ She paused then, weary, with dry lips Apart. From the outside By fits there boomed a dull report From where i' the hanging tennis-court The bridegroom's retinue made sport. The room lay still in dusty glare, Having no sound through it Except the chirp of a caged bird That came and ceased: and if she stirred, Amelotte's raiment could be heard. Quoth Amelotte: ‘The night this chanced Was a late summer night Last year! What secret, for Christ's love, Keep'st thou since then? Mary above! What thing is this thou speakest of? ‘Mary and Christ! Lest when 'tis told I should be prone to wrath,— This prayer beforehand! How she errs Soe'er, take count of grief like hers, Whereof the days are turned to years!’ She bowed her neck, and having said, Kept on her knees to hear; And then, because strained thought demands Quiet before it understands, Darkened her eyesight with her hands. So when at last her sister spoke, She did not see the pain O' the mouth nor the ashamčd eyes, But marked the breath that came in sighs And the half-pausing for replies. This was the bride's sad prelude-strain:— ‘I' the convent where a girl I dwelt till near my womanhood, I had but preachings of the rood And Aves told in solitude ‘To spend my heart on: and my hand Had but the weary skill To eke out upon silken cloth Christ's visage, or the long bright growth Of Mary's hair, or Satan wroth. ‘So when at last I went, and thou, A child not known before, Didst come to take the place I left,— My limbs, after such lifelong theft Of life, could be but little deft ‘In all that ministers delight To noble women: I Had learned no word of youth's discourse, Nor gazed on games of warriors, Nor trained a hound, nor ruled a horse. ‘Besides, the daily life i' the sun Made me at first hold back. To thee this came at once; to me It crept with pauses timidly; I am not blithe and strong like thee. ‘Yet my feet liked the dances well, The songs went to my voice, The music made me shake and weep; And often, all night long, my sleep Gave dreams I had been fain to keep. ‘But though I loved not holy things, To hear them scorned brought pain,— They were my childhood; and these dames Were merely perjured in saints' names And fixed upon saints' days for games. ‘And sometimes when my father rode To hunt with his loud friends, I dared not bring him to be quaff'd, As my wont was, his stirrup-draught, Because they jested so and laugh'd. ‘At last one day my brothers said, “The girl must not grow thus,— Bring her a jennet,—she shall ride.” They helped my mounting, and I tried To laugh with them and keep their side. ‘But brakes were rough and bents were steep Upon our path that day: My palfrey threw me; and I went Upon men's shoulders home, sore spent, While the chase followed up the scent. ‘Our shrift-father (and he alone Of all the household there Had skill in leechcraft,) was away When I reached home. I tossed, and lay Sullen with anguish the whole day. ‘For the day passed ere some one brought To mind that in the hunt Rode a young lord she named, long bred Among the priests, whose art (she said) Might chance to stand me in much stead. X Printer's mark in margin of line 243 to correct faulty type. ‘I bade them seek and summon him: But long ere this, the chase Had scattered, and he was not found. I lay in the same weary stound, Therefore, until the night came round. ‘It was dead night and near on twelve When the horse-tramp at length Beat up the echoes of the court: By then, my feverish breath was short With pain the sense could scarce support. ‘My fond nurse sitting near my feet Rose softly,—her lamp's flame Held in her hand, lest it should make My heated lids, in passing, ache; And she passed softly, for my sake. ‘Returning soon, she brought the youth They spoke of. Meek he seemed, But good knights held him of stout heart. He was akin to us in part, And bore our shield, but barred athwart. ‘I now remembered to have seen His face, and heard him praised For letter-lore and medicine, Seeing his youth was nurtured in Priests' knowledge, as mine own had been.’ The bride's voice did not weaken here, Yet by her sudden pause She seemed to look for questioning; Or else (small need though) 'twas to bring Well to her mind the bygone thing. Her thought, long stagnant, stirred by speech, Gave her a sick recoil; As, dip thy fingers through the green That masks a pool,—where they have been The naked depth is black between. Amelotte kept her knees; her face Was shut within her hands, As it had been throughout the tale; Her forehead's whiteness might avail Nothing to say if she were pale. Although the lattice had dropped loose, There was no wind; the heat Being so at rest that Amelotte Heard far beneath the plunge and float Of a hound swimming in the moat. Some minutes since, two rooks had toiled Home to the nests that crowned Ancestral ash-trees. Through the glare Beating again, they seemed to tear With that thick caw the woof o' the air. But else, 'twas at the dead of noon Absolute silence; all, From the raised bridge and guarded sconce To green-clad places of pleasałnce Where the long lake was white with swans. Amelotte spoke not any word Nor moved she once; but felt Between her hands in narrow space Her own hot breath upon her face, And kept in silence the same place. Alo’se did not hear at all The sounds without. She heard The inward voice (past help obey'd) Which might not slacken nor be stay'd, But urged her till the whole were said. Therefore she spoke again: ‘That night But little could be done: My foot, held in my nurse's hands, He swathed up heedfully in bands, And for my rest gave close commands. ‘I slept till noon, but an ill sleep Of dreams: through all that day My side was stiff and caught the breath; Next day, such pain as sickeneth Took me, and I was nigh to death. ‘Life strove, Death claimed me for his own Through days and nights: but now 'Twas the good father tended me, Having returned. Still, I did see The youth I spoke of constantly. ‘For he would with my brothers come To stay beside my couch, And fix my eyes against his own, Noting my pulse; or else alone, To sit at gaze while I made moan. ‘(Some nights I knew he kept the watch, Because my women laid The rushes thick for his steel shoes.) Through many days this pain did use The life God would not let me lose. ‘At length, with my good nurse to aid, I could walk forth again: And still, as one who broods or grieves, At noons I'd meet him and at eves, With idle feet that drove the leaves. ‘The day when I first walked alone Was thinned in grass and leaf And yet a goodly day o' the year: The last bird's cry upon mine ear Left my brain weak, it was so clear. The tears were sharp within mine eyes; I sat down, being glad, And wept; but stayed the sudden flow Anon, for footsteps that fell slow; 'Twas that youth passed me, bowing low. Because of type damage, the comma following the word when in the first line of the next stanza resembles a period. ‘He passed me without speech; but when, At least an hour gone by, Rethreading the same covert, he Saw I was still beneath the tree, He spoke and sat him down with me. ‘Little we said; nor one heart heard Even what was said within; And, faltering some farewell, I soon Rose up; but then i' the autumn noon My feeble brain whirled like a swoon. ‘He made me sit. “Cousin, I grieve Your sickness stays by you.” “I would,” said I, “that you did err So grieving. I am wearier Than death, of the sickening dying year.” ‘He answered: “If your weariness Accepts a remedy, I hold one and can give it you.” I gazed: “What ministers thereto, Be sure,” I said, “that I will do.” ‘He went on quickly:—'Twas a cure He had not ever named Unto our kin, lest they should stint Their favour, for some foolish hint Of wizardry or magic in't: ‘But that if he were let to come Within my bower that night, (My women still attending me, He said, while he remain'd there,) he Could teach me the cure privily. ‘I bade him come that night. He came; But little in his speech Was cure or sickness spoken of, Only a passionate fierce love That clamoured upon God above. ‘My women wondered, leaning close Aloof. At mine own heart I think great wonder was not stirr'd. I dared not listen, yet I heard His tangled speech, word within word. ‘He craved my pardon first,—all else Wild tumult. In the end He remained silent at my feet Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat Made all the blood of my life meet. ‘And lo! I loved him. I but said, If he would leave me then, His hope some future might forecast. His hot lips stung my hand: at last My damsels led him forth in haste.’ The bride took breath to pause; and turned Her gaze where Amelotte Knelt,—the gold hair upon her back Quite still in all its threads,—the track Of her still shadow sharp and black. That listening without sight had grown To stealthy dread; and now That the one sound she had to mark Left her alone too, she was stark Afraid, as children in the dark. Her fingers felt her temples beat; Then came that brain-sickness Which thinks to scream, and murmureth; And pent between her hands, the breath Was damp against her face like death. Her arms both fell at once; but when She gasped upon the light, Her sense returned. She would have pray'd To change whatever words still stay'd Behind, but felt there was no aid. So she rose up, and having gone Within the window's arch Once more, she sat there, all intent On torturing doubts, and once more bent To hear, in mute bewilderment.