THE NOVICE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI

I love one, and he loveth me:
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss,
Or source of misery?

The loved may die, or he may change:
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter, nought is left
Save life that seemeth strange.

A weary life, a hopeless life,
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
Alone after death's strife.

And love's joy hath no quiet even;
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in Hell,
More than repose in Heaven.

Yea, it is as a poison cup
That holds one quick fire-draught within;
For when the life seems to begin
The slow death looketh up.

Then bring me to a solitude
Where love may neither come nor go;
Where very peaceful waters flow,
And roots are found for food;

Where the wild honey-bee booms by;
And trees and bushes freely give
Ripe fruit and nuts; there I would live,
And there I fain would die.

There Autumn leaves may make my grave,
And little birds sing over it;
And there cool twilight winds may flit
And shadowy branches wave.

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