Ballads and Sonnets (1881), proof Signature S (Delaware Museum, second revise, complete uncorrected copy 2) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Text courtesy of The Delaware Art Museum Ballads and Sonnets Dante Gabriel Rossetti F. S. Ellis Chiswick Press, C. Whittingham and Co. London 1881 May 18 (circa) proof 257-272 3 DGR S8 Library, Delaware Art Museum 10 point; 6 point leading roman 17 2 cm 3.8 cm 2 cm 2.5 cm 19 x 12.8cm (crown octavo) Commentary
Introduction

This is a complete uncorrected second revise proof of Signature S (undated and marked 3b by the printer). It is a duplicate of another uncorrected copy.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Besides this copy of the second revise, the Delaware Art Museum library has the following proof copies of Signature S: a corrected copy of the author's first proof, dated 5 May and numbered 1; a corrected corrected copy of the first revise and (dated 10 May 1881 and numbered 2); and three copies of the second revise (none dated): this copy, an uncorrected duplicate copy, and WMR's copy (all three undated). The British Library proofs have another copy of the first author's proof for this signature (dated 6 May and marked 1).

Printing History

Reception History

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

S 3b Printer's proof number added in upper left. <hi rend="center"> <hi rend="c">SONNET XCV</hi> </hi>.<lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">THE VASE OF LIFE.</hi> </hi> Around the vase of Life at your slow pace He has not crept, but turned it with his hands, And all its sides already understands. There, girt, one breathes alert for some great race; Whose road runs far by sands and fruitful space; Who laughs, yet through the jolly throng has pass'd; Who weeps, nor stays for weeping; who at last, A youth, stands somewhere crowned, with silent face. And he has filled this vase with wine for blood, With blood for tears, with spice for burning vow, With watered flowers for buried love most fit; And would have cast it shattered to the flood, Yet in Fate's name has kept it whole; which now Stands empty till his ashes fall in it. <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">SONNET XCVI</hi> </hi>.<lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">LIFE THE BELOVED</hi> </hi>. As thy friend's face, with shadow of soul o'erspread, Somewhile unto thy sight perchance hath been Ghastly and strange, yet never so is seen In thought, but to all fortunate favour wed; As thy love's death-bound features never dead To memory's glass return, but contravene Frail fugitive days, and alway keep, I ween, Than all new life a livelier lovelihead:— So Life herself, thy spirit's friend and love, Even still as Spring's authentic harbinger Glows with fresh hours for hope to glorify; Though pale she lay when in the winter grove Her funeral flowers were snow-flakes shed on her And the red wings of frost-fire rent the sky. <hi rend="c">SONNET XCVII</hi>.<lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="c">A SUPERSCRIPTION</hi>. Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">SONNET XCVIII</hi> </hi>.<lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">HE AND I</hi> </hi>. Whence came his feet into my field, and why? How is it that he sees it all so drear? How do I see his seeing, and how hear The name his bitter silence knows it by? This was the little fold of separate sky Whose pasturing clouds in the soul's atmosphere Drew living light from one continual year: How should he find it lifeless? He, or I? Lo! this new Self now wanders round my field, With plaints for every flower, and for each tree A moan, the sighing wind's auxiliary: And o'er sweet waters of my life, that yield Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal'd, Even in my place he weeps. Even I, not he. <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">SONNETS XCIX., C.</hi> </hi> <lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">NEWBORN DEATH</hi> </hi>. <hi rend="center">I.</hi> To-day Death seems to me an infant child Which her worn mother Life upon my knee Has set to grow my friend and play with me; If haply so my heart might be beguil'd To find no terrors in a face so mild,— If haply so my weary heart might be Unto the newborn milky eyes of thee, O Death, before resentment reconcil'd. How long, O Death? And shall thy feet depart Still a young child's with mine, or wilt thou stand Fullgrown the helpful daughter of my heart, What time with thee indeed I reach the strand Of the pale wave which knows thee what thou art, And drink it in the hollow of thy hand? <hi rend="center">II.</hi> And thou, O Life, the lady of all bliss, With whom, when our first heart beat full and fast, I wandered till the haunts of men were pass'd, And in fair places found all bowers amiss Till only woods and waves might hear our kiss, While to the winds all thought of Death we cast:— Ah, Life! and must I have from thee at last No smile to greet me and no babe but this? Lo! Love, the child once ours; and Song, whose hair Blew like a flame and blossomed like a wreath; And Art, whose eyes were worlds by God found fair; These o'er the book of Nature mixed their breath With neck-twined arms, as oft we watched them there: And did these die that thou mightst bear me Death? <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">SONNET CI</hi> </hi>.<lb/> <lb/> <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">THE ONE HOPE</hi> </hi>. When vain desire at last and vain regret Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain, What shall assuage the unforgotten pain And teach the unforgetful to forget? Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet,— Or may the soul at once in a green plain Stoop through the spray of some sweet life— fountain And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet? Ah! when the wan soul in that golden air Between the scriptured petals softly blown Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown,— Ah! let none other alien spell soe'er But only the one Hope's one name be there,— Not less nor more, but even that word alone.

END OF THE HOUSE OF LIFE.

 blank page <hi rend="c">LYRICS</hi> <lb/>&c. blank page <hi rend="c"> <hi rend="center">SOOTHSAY</hi> </hi>. Let no man ask thee of anything Not yearborn between Spring and Spring. More of all worlds than he can know, Each day the single sun doth show. A trustier gloss than thou canst give From all wise scrolls demonstrative, The sea doth sigh and the wind sing. Let no man awe thee on any height Of earthly kingship's mouldering might. The dust his heel holds meet for thy brow Hath all of it been what both are now; And thou and he may plague together A beggar's eyes in some dusty weather When none that is now knows sound or sight. Crave thou no dower of earthly things Unworthy Hope's imaginings. To have brought true birth of Song to be And to have won hearts to Poesy, Or anywhere in the sun or rain To have loved and been beloved again, Is loftiest reach of Hope's bright wings. The wild waifs cast up by the sea Are diverse ever seasonably. Even so the soul-tides still may land A different drift upon the sand. But one the sea is evermore: And one be still, 'twixt shore and shore, As the sea's life, thy soul in thee. Say, hast thou pride? How then may fit Thy mood with flatterers' silk-spun wit? Haply the sweet voice lifts thy crest, A breeze of fame made manifest. Nay, but then chaf'st at flattery? Pause: Be sure thy wrath is not because It makes thee feel thou lovest it. Let thy soul strive that still the same Be early friendship's sacred flame. The affinities have strongest part In youth, and draw men heart to heart: As life wears on and finds no rest, The individual in each breast Is tyrannous to sunder them. In the life-drama's stern cue-call, A friend's a part well-prized by all: And if thou meet an enemy, What art thou that none such should be? Even so: but if the two parts run Into each other and grow one, Then comes the curtain's cue to fall. Whate'er by other's need is claimed More than by thine,—to him unblamed Resign it: and if he should hold What more than he thou lack'st, bread, gold, Or any good whereby we live,— To thee such substance let him give Freely: nor he nor thou be shamed. Strive that thy works prove equal: lest That work which thou hast done the best Should come to be to thee at length (Even as to envy seems the strength Of others) hateful and abhorr'd,— Thine own above thyself made lord,— Of self-rebuke the bitterest. Unto the man of yearning thought And aspiration, to do nought Is in itself almost an act,— Being chasm-fire and cataract Of the soul's utter depths unseal'd. Yet woe to thee if once thou yield Unto the act of doing nought! How callous seems beyond revoke The clock with its last listless stroke! How much too late at length!—to trace The hour on its forewarning face, The thing thou hast not dared to do!. . . . Behold, this may be thus! Ere true It prove, arise and bear thy yoke. Let lore of all Theology Be to thy soul what it can be: But know,—the Power that fashions man Measured not out thy little span