Ashley 1404 (Page Proofs for <title level="wrk">The Stream's Secret and four other sonnets) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 By permission of The British Library. [Untitled] Dante Gabriel Rossetti Strangeways and Walden London 1870 March This is a set of revise proofs for the first edition. [1]-16 DGR DGR's notes on the placement of the texts head each separate poem. DGR British Library, Ashley Library Ashley1404 17.1 x 11.1 cm Commentary
Introduction

This is a set of proof texts of five poems that DGR added to his 1870 volume at the latest stage of its printing in March 1870. They represent a textual addition that would have been printed up for reviewers who had already received early review copies of the 1870 <xref doc="a.1-1870.raw"> <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> </xref> in which these poems would not have appeared. This document represents a fairly late stage in the printing of these added poems; the earliest extant stage would be represented by the proof pages DGR sent to Jane Morris (British Library Add. MSS. 45353), probably only a day or two before these proofs were pulled. These proofs carry the revisions marked in the proofs sent to Jane Morris, as well as other revisions not called for in those proofs.

The proof contains the following poems: “ <xref doc="a.21-1869.raw">The Stream's Secret</xref> ” (pages 1-12); “ <xref doc="a.4-1870.raw">The Love-Letter</xref> ” (page 13); “ <xref doc="a.13-1870.raw">Barren Spring</xref> ” (page 14); “ <xref doc="a.24-1869.raw">The Wine of Circe</xref> ” (page 15); and “ <xref doc="a.11-1870.raw">The Monochord</xref> ” (page 16).

Another (uncorrected) set of these revise proofs is housed in the Huntington Library, and two others are in both the Fitzwilliam Library and in the Princeton/Troxell collections.

There were four states that this revise passed through; this is the third state.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Printed March 1870, just before the publication of the 1870 <xref doc="a.1-1870.raw">Poems</xref> in April.

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

T. A. J. Burnett, <xref doc="a.burnett001.rad" link="dead">Unpublished Notes on the Ashley Library</xref> (The British Library, n.d.)

Comes after “Stratton Water” in the book. DGR's notation on the poem's placement <hi rend="c">THE STREAM'S SECRET.</hi> What thing unto mine ear Wouldst thou convey,—what secret thing, O wandering water ever whispering? Surely thy speech shall be of her. Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer, What message dost thou bring? Say, hath not Love leaned low This hour beside thy far well-head, And there through jealous hollowed fingers said The thing that most I long to know,— Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy flow And washed lips rosy red? He told it to thee there Where thy voice hath a louder tone; But where it welters to this little moan His will decrees that I should hear. Now speak: for with the silence is no fear, And I am all alone. Shall Time not still endow One hour with life, and I and she Slake on love's lips the thirst of memory? Say, stream; lest l Love should disavow Thy service, and the bird upon the bough Sing first to tell it me. What whisperest thou? Nay, why Name the dead hours? I mind them well: Their ghosts in many darkened doorways dwell With desolate eyes to know them by. That hour must still be born ere it can die: Of that I'd have thee tell. But hear, before thou speak! Withhold, I pray, the vain behest That while the maze hath still its bower for quest My burning heart should cease to seek. Be sure that Love ordained for souls more meek His roadside dells of rest. Stream, when this silver thread In flood-time is a torrent brown, May any bulwark bind thy foaming crown? Shall not the waters surge and spread And to the crannied boulders of their bed Still shoot the dead leaves down? Let no rebuke find place In speech of thine: or it shall prove That thou dost ill expound the words of Love, Even as thine eddy's rippling race Would blur the perfect image of his face. I will have none thereof. O learn and understand That 'gainst the wrongs himself did wreak Love sought her aid; until her shadowy cheek And eyes beseeching gave command; And compassed in her close compassionate hand My heart must burn and speak. For then at last we spoke What eyes so oft had told to eyes Through that long-lingering silence whose half-sighs Alone the buried secret broke, Which with snatched hands and lips' reverberate stroke Then from the heart did rise. But she is far away Now; nor the hours of night grown hoar Bring yet to me, long gazing from the door, The wind-stirred robe of roseate grey And rose-crown of the hour that leads the day When we shall meet once more. Dark as thy blinded wave When brimming midnight floods the glen,— Bright as the laughter of thy runnels when The dawn brings all the light they crave; Even so these hours to wound and that to save Are sisters in Love's ken. Oh sweet her bending grace Then when I kneel beside her feet; And sweet her eyes' o'erhanging heaven; and sweet The gathering folds of her embrace; And her fall'n hair at last shed round my face When breaths and tears shall meet. Beneath her sheltering hair, In the warm silence near her breast, Our kisses and our sobs shall sink to rest; As in some still trance made aware That day and night have wrought to fulness there And Love has built our nest. And as in the dim grove, When the rains cease that hushed them long, 'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds wake to song,— So from our hearts deep-shrined in love, While the leaves throb beneath, around, above, The quivering notes shall throng. Till tenderest words found vain Draw back to wonder mute and deep, And closed lips in closed arms a silence keep, Subdued by memory's circling strain,— The wind-rapt sound that the wind brings again While all the willows weep. Then by her summoning art Shall memory conjure back the sere Autumnal Springs, from many a dying year Born dead; and, bitter to the heart, The very ways where now we walk apart Who then shall cling so near. And with each thought new-grown, Some sweet caress or some sweet name Low breathed shall let me know her thought the same; Making me rich with every tone And touch of the dear heaven so long unknown That filled my dreams with flame. Pity and love shall burn In her pressed cheek and cherishing hands; And from the living spirit of love that stands Between her lips to soothe and yearn, Each separate breath shall clasp me round in turn And loose my spirit's bands. Oh passing sweet and dear, Then when the worshipped form and face Are felt at length in darkling close embrace; Round which so oft the sun shone clear, With mocking light and pitiless atmosphere, In many an hour and place. Ah me! with what proud growth Shall that hour's thirsting race be run; While, for each several sweetness still begun Afresh, endures love's endless drouth: Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth, Each singly wooed and won. Yet most with the sweet soul Shall love's espousals then be knit; What time the governing cloud sheds peace from it O'er tremulous wings that touch the goal, And on the unmeasured height of Love's control The lustral fires are lit. Therefore, when breast and cheek Now part, from long embraces free,— Each on the other gazing shall but see A self that has no need to speak: All things unsought, yet nothing more to seek,— One love in unity. O water wandering past,— Albeit to thee I speak this thing, O water, thou that wanderest whispering, Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. What spell upon thy bosom should Love cast, Its secret thence to wring? Nay, must thou hear the tale Of the past days,—the heavy debt Of life that obdurate time withholds,—ere yet To win thine ear these prayers prevail, And by thy voice Love's self with high All-hail Yield up the amulet? How should all this be told?— All the sad sum of wayworn days;— Heart's anguish in the impenetrable maze; And on the waste uncoloured wold The visible burthen of the sun grown cold And the moon's labouring gaze? Alas! shall hope be nurs'd On life's all-succouring breast in vain, And made so perfect only to be slain? Or shall not rather the sweet thirst Even yet rejoice the heart with warmth dispers'd And strength grown fair again? Stands it not by the door— Love's Hour—till she and I shall meet; With bodiless form and unapparent feet That cast no shadow yet before, Though round its head the dawn begins to pour The breath that makes day sweet? Its eyes invisible Watch till the dial's thin-thrown shade Be born,—yea, till the journeying line be laid Upon the point that wakes the spell, And there in lovelier light than tongue can tell Its presence stand array'd. Its soul remembers yet Those sunlit hours that passed it by; And still it hears the night's disconsolate cry, And feels the branches wringing wet Cast on its brow, that may not once forget, Dumb tears from the blind sky. But oh! when now her foot Draws near, for whose sake night and day Were long in weary longing sighed away,— The Hour of Love, no longer mute, Shall sing beside the door, and Love's own lute Thrill to the passionate lay. Thou know'st, for Love has told Within thine ear, O stream, how soon That song shall lift its sweet appointed tune. O tell me, for my lips are cold, And in my veins the blood is waxing old Even while I beg the boon. So, in that hour of sighs Assuaged, shall we beside this stone Yield thanks for grace; while in thy mirror shown The twofold image softly lies, Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes Is imaged all alone. Still silent? Can no art Of Love's then move thy pity? Nay, To thee let nothing come that owns his sway: Let happy lovers have no part With thee; nor even so sad and poor a heart As thou hast spurned to-day. To-day? Lo! night is here. The glen grows heavy with some veil Risen from the earth or fall'n to make earth pale; And all stands to eye and ear, Until the night-wind shake the shade like fear And every covert quail. Ah! by another wave On other airs the hour must come Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. Between the lips of the low cave Against that night the lapping waters lave, And the dark lips are dumb. But there Love's self doth stand, And with Life's weary wings far-flown, And with Death's eyes that make the water moan, Gathers the water in his hand: And they that drink know nought of sky or land But only love alone. O soul-sequestered face Far off,—O were that night but now! So even beside that stream even I and thou Through thirsting lips should draw Love's grace, And in the zone of that supreme embrace Bind aching breast and brow. O water whispering Still through the dark into mine ears,— As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers?— Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, Wan water, wandering water weltering, This hidden tide of tears. Comes in the House of Life after “The Portrait” DGR's notation on the poem's placement <hi rend="c">THE LOVE-LETTER.</hi> Warmed by her hand and shadowed by her hair As close she leaned and poured her heart through thee, Whereof the articulate throbs accompany The smooth black stream that makes thy whiteness fair,— Sweet fluttering sheet, even of her breath aware,— Oh let thy silent song disclose to me That soul wherewith her lips and eyes agree Like married music in Love's answering air. Fain had I watched her when, at some fond thought, Her bosom to the writing closelier press'd, And her breast's secrets peered into her breast; When, through eyes raised an instant, her soul sought My soul, and from the sudden confluence caught The words that made her love the loveliest. Comes in H. of L - after The Hill Summit DGR's notation on the poem's placement <hi rend="c">BARREN SPRING.</hi> So now the changed year's turning wheel returns: And as a girl sails balanced in the wind, And now before and now again behind Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that laughs and burns,— So Spring comes merry towards me now, but earns No answering smile from me, whose life is twin'd With the dead boughs that winter still must bind, And whom to-day the Spring no more concerns. Behold, this crocus is a withering flame; This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom's part To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent's art. Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them, Nor gaze till on the year's last lily-stem The white cup shrivels round the golden heart. Comes in Sonnets for Pictures after “Ruggiero & Angelica” DGR's notation on the poem's placement <hi rend="sc">FOR</hi> <lb/> “<hi rend="c">THE WINE OF CIRCE</hi>”<lb/> <hi rend="sc">BY EDWARD BURNE JONES.</hi> Dusk-haired and gold-robed o'er the golden wine She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame, Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine. Doth Helios here with Hecatè combine (O Circe, thou their votaress!) to proclaim For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name, Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign? Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore, Wait; who with them in new equality To-night shall echo back the unchanging roar Which sounds for ever from the tide-strown shore Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea. Comes last in the book DGR's notation on the poem's placement <hi rend="c">THE MONOCHORD.</hi> <lb/> (<hi rend="i">Written during Music.</hi>) Is it the moved air or the moving sound That is Life's self and draws my life from me, And by instinct ineffable decree Holds my breath quailing on the bitter bound? Nay, is it Life or Death, thus thunder-crown'd, That 'mid the tide of all emergency Now notes my separate wave, and to what sea Its difficult eddies labour in the ground? Oh! what is this that knows the road I came, The flame turned cloud, the cloud returned to flame, The lifted shifted steeps and all the way?— That draws round me at last this wind-warm space, And in regenerate rapture turns my face Upon the devious coverts of dismay?