Christina Rossetti

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 What can I give Him Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, read more

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 What can I give Him Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would give Him a lamb, If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part, -- But what I can, I give Him, Give my heart.

For there is no friend like a sister in calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, read more

For there is no friend like a sister in calm or stormy weather; To cheer one on the tedious way, to fetch one if one goes astray, to lift one if one totters down, to strengthen whilst one stands.

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 Heaven overarches earth and sea, Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness. Heaven overarches you and read more

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 Heaven overarches earth and sea, Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness. Heaven overarches you and me: A little while and we shall be - Please God -- where there is no more sea Nor barren wilderness. Heaven overarches you and me, And all earth's gardens and her braves. Look up with me, until we see The day break and the shadows flee. What though to-night wrecks you and me, If so to-morrow saves?

I might show facts as plain as day: but, since your eyes are blind, you'd say, "Where? What?" and turn read more

I might show facts as plain as day: but, since your eyes are blind, you'd say, "Where? What?" and turn away.

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 A Better Resurrection I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart read more

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 A Better Resurrection I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too much for hopes or fears. Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief No everlasting hills I see; My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me. My life is like a faded leaf, My harvest dwindled to a husk: Truly my life is void and brief And tedious in the barren dusk; My life is like a frozen thing, No bud nor greenness can I see: Yet rise it shall--the sap of spring; O Jesus, rise in me. My life is like a broken bowl, A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul Or cordial in the searching cold; Cast in the fire the perished thing; Melt and remould it, till it be A royal cup for Him, my King: O Jesus, drink of me.