Poems. A New Edition (1881), proof Signature Q (Delaware Museum, first revise proof (copy 1) 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 18 (circa) proof 225-240 1 DGR Q8 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 printer's copy 1 of the first revise proof (which is the last proof) of Signature Q of the 1881 <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> . It has no corrections.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Five copies of this proof signature are preserved in the library of the Delaware Art Museum. They include the corrected author's first proof (partial copy), and four uncorrected copies of the revise made from the first proof: this copy, copy 2, copy 3, and copy 4.

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

401 X Printer's notations in upper right Q ‘Then I fell back from them, and lay Outwearied. My tired sense Soon filmed and settled, and like stone I slept; till something made me moan, And I woke up at night alone. ‘I woke at midnight, cold and dazed; Because I found myself Seated upright, with bosom bare, Upon my bed, combing my hair, Ready to go, I knew not where. It dawned light day,—the last of those Long months of longing days. That noon, the change was wrought on me In somewise,—nought to hear or see,— Only a trance and agony.’ The bride's voice failed her, from no will To pause. The bridesmaid leaned, And where the window-panes were white, Looked for the day: she knew not quite If there were either day or night. It seemed to Aloÿse that the whole Day's weight lay back on her Like lead. The hours that did remain Beat their dry wings upon her brain Once in mid-flight, and passed again. There hung a cage of burnt perfumes In the recess: but these, For some hours, weak against the sun, Had simmered in white ash. From One The second quarter was begun. They had not heard the stroke. The air, Though altered with no wind, Breathed now by pauses, so to say: Each breath was time that went away,— Each pause a minute of the day. I' the almonry, the almoner, Hard by, had just dispensed Church-dole and march-dole. High and wide Now rose the shout of thanks, which cried On God that He should bless the bride. Its echo thrilled within their feet, And in the furthest rooms Was heard, where maidens flushed and gay Wove with stooped necks the wreaths alway Fair for the virgin's marriage-day. The mother leaned along, in thought After her child; till tears, Bitter, not like a wedded girl's, Fell down her breast along her curls, And ran in the close work of pearls. The speech ached at her heart. She said: ‘Sweet Mary, do thou plead This hour with thy most blessed Son To let these shameful words atone, That I may die when I have done.’ The thought ached at her soul. Yet now:— ‘Itself—that life’ (she said,) Out of my weary life—when sense Unclosed, was gone. What evil men's Most evil hands had borne it thence ‘I knew, and cursed them. Still in sleep I have my child; and pray To know if it indeed appear As in my dream's perpetual sphere, That I—death reached—may seek it there. ‘Sleeping, I wept; though until dark A fever dried mine eyes Kept open; save when a tear might Be forced from the mere ache of sight. And I nursed hatred day and night. ‘Aye, and I sought revenge by spells; And vainly many a time Have laid my face into the lap Of a wise woman, and heard clap Her thunder, the fiend's juggling trap. ‘At length I feared to curse them, lest From evil lips the curse Should be a blessing; and would sit Rocking myself and stifling it With babbled jargon of no wit. ‘But this was not at first: the days And weeks made frenzied months Before this came. My curses, pil'd Then with each hour unreconcil'd, Still wait for those who took my child.’ She stopped, grown fainter. ‘Amelotte, Surely,’ she said, ‘this sun Sheds judgment-fire from the fierce south: It does not let me breathe: the drouth Is like sand spread within my mouth.’ The bridesmaid rose. I' the outer glare Gleamed her pale cheeks, and eyes Sore troubled; and aweary weigh'd Her brows just lifted out of shade; And the light jarred within her head. 'Mid flowers fair-heaped there stood a bowl With water. She therein Through eddying bubbles slid a cup, And offered it, being risen up, Close to her sister's mouth, to sup. The freshness dwelt upon her sense, Yet did not the bride drink; But she dipped in her hand anon And cooled her temples; and all wan With lids that held their ache, went on. ‘Through those dark watches of my woe, Time, an ill plant, had waxed Apace. That year was finished. Dumb And blind, life's wheel with earth's had come Whirled round: and we might seek our home. ‘Our wealth was rendered back, with wealth Snatched from our foes. The house Had more than its old strength and fame: But still 'neath the fair outward claim I rankled,—a fierce core of shame. ‘It chilled me from their eyes and lips Upon a night of those First days of triumph, as I gazed Listless and sick, or scarcely raised My face to mark the sports they praised. ‘The endless changes of the dance Bewildered me: the tones Of lute and cithern struggled tow'rds Some sense; and still in the last chords The music seemed to sing wild words. ‘My shame possessed me in the light And pageant, till I swooned. But from that hour I put my shame From me, and cast it over them By God's command and in God's name ‘For my child's bitter sake. O thou Once felt against my heart With longing of the eyes,—a pain Since to my heart for ever,—then Beheld not, and not felt again!’ She scarcely paused, continuing:— ‘That year drooped weak in March; And April, finding the streams dry, Choked, with no rain, in dust: the sky Shall not be fainter this July. ‘Men sickened; beasts lay without strength; The year died in the land. But I, already desolate, Said merely, sitting down to wait,— “The seasons change and Time wears late.” ‘For I had my hard secret told, In secret, to a priest; With him I communed; and he said The world's soul, for its sins, was sped, And the sun's courses numberèd. ‘The year slid like a corpse afloat: None trafficked,—who had bread Did eat. That year our legions, come Thinned from the place of war, at home Found busier death, more burdensome. ‘Tidings and rumours came with them, The first for months. The chiefs Sat daily at our board, and in Their speech were names of friend and kin: One day they spoke of Urscelyn. ‘The words were light, among the rest: Quick glance my brothers sent To sift the speech; and I, struck through, Sat sick and giddy in full view: Yet did none gaze, so many knew. ‘Because in the beginning, much Had caught abroad, through them That heard my clamour on the coast: But two were hanged; and then the most Held silence wisdom, as thou know'st. ‘That year the convent yielded thee Back to our home; and thou Then knew'st not how I shuddered cold To kiss thee, seeming to enfold To my changed heart myself of old. ‘Then there was showing thee the house, So many rooms and doors; Thinking the while how thou would'st start If once I flung the doors apart Of one dull chamber in my heart. And yet I longed to open it; And often in that year Of plague and want, when side by side We've knelt to pray with them that died, My prayer was, “Show her what I hide!”’

End of Part I.

 <hi rend="c">LYRICS.</hi> blank page <hi rend="c">LOVE-LILY</hi>. Between the hands, between the brows, Between the lips of Love-Lily, A spirit is born whose birth endows My blood with fire to burn through me; Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, At whose least touch my colour flies, And whom my life grows faint to hear. Within the voice, within the heart, Within the mind of Love-Lily, A spirit is born who lifts apart His tremulous wings and looks at me; Who on my mouth his finger lays, And shows, while whispering lutes confer, That Eden of Love's watered ways Whose winds and spirits worship her. Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, Kisses and words of Love-Lily,— Oh! bid me with your joy rejoice Till riotous longing rest in me! Ah! let not hope be still distraught, But find in her its gracious goal, Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought Nor Love her body from her soul. <hi rend="c">FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED</hi>. Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er It be, a holy place: The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid's who dreams alone, As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night: Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence: There still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed: For there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. <hi rend="c">PLIGHTED PROMISE</hi>. In a soft-complexioned sky, Fleeting rose and kindling grey, Have you seen Aurora fly At the break of day? So my maiden, so my plighted may Blushing cheek and gleaming eye Lifts to look my way. Where the inmost leaf is stirred With the heart-beat of the grove, Have you heard a hidden bird Cast her note above? So my lady, so my lovely love, Echoing Cupid's prompted word, Makes a tune thereof.