THE THREAD OF LIFE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI

THE irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me: --
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,
And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

Thus I am mine own prison. Everything
Around me free amd sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in s shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew
And smile a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.

Therefore myself that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own, while moon and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing, O Death, where is thy sting?
And sing, O grave, where is thy victory?

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