Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A YEAR AFTERWARDS, by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A YEAR AFTERWARDS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Things are so changed since last we met
Last Line: And the same stars and silent sky.
Alternate Author Name(s): Alleyne, Ellen; Rossetti, Christina
Subject(s): Death; Flowers; Graves; Heaven; Dead, The; Tombs; Tombstones; Paradise


Things are so changed since last we met:
Come; I will show you where she lies.
Doubtless the old look fills her eyes,
And the old patient smile is set
Upon her mouth: it was even so
When last I saw her stretched and still,
So pale and calm I could not weep:
The steady sweetness did not go
Thro' the long week she lay asleep,
Until the dust was heaped on her.
Now many-feathered grasses grow
Above her bosom: come; I will
Show you all this, and we can talk
Going; it is a pleasant walk
And the wind makes it pleasanter.

This is the very path that she
So often trod with eager feet
Tho' weary. The dusk branches meet
Above, making green fretted work,
The screen between my saint and me.
There, where the softest sunbeams lurk,
Cannot you fancy she may be
Leaning down to me from her rest;
And shaking her long golden hair
Thro' the thick branches to my face,
That I may feel she still is mine? --
Is not this wood a pleasant place?
To me the faintest breath of air
Seems here to whisper tenderly
That she, mine own, will not forget.
It may be selfishness; and yet
I like to think her joy may not
Be perfected, although divine
In all the glory of the blest,
Without me: that the greenest spot
And shadiest, would not suffice,
Without me, even in Paradise.

But we must leave the wood to go
Across the sunny fields of wheat;
I used to fancy that the grass
And daisies loved to touch her feet.
This was the way we used to pass
Together; rain nor wind nor snow
Could hinder her, until her strength
Failed utterly; and when at length
She was too weak, they put her bed
Close to the window; there she lay
Counting the Church chimes one by one
For many weeks: at last a day
Came when her patient watch was done,
And some one told me she was dead.

Now we can see the Church tower; look,
Where the old flaky yew trees stand.
There is a certain shady nook
Among them, where she used to sit
When weary: I have held her hand
So often there: one day she said
That sometimes, when we sat so, she
Could fancy what being dead must be,
And long for it if shared by me: --
She had no cause for dreading it,
And never once conceived my dread.

This path leads to the Western door
Where the sun casts his latest beam,
And hard beside it is her grave.
I sowed those grasses there that wave
Like down, but would sow nothing more,
No flowers, as if her resting place
Could want for sweetness; where she is
Is sweetest of all sweetnesses.
If you look closely, you can trace
A Cross formed by the grass, above
Her head: and sometimes I could dream
She sees the Cross, and feels the love
That planted it; and prays that I
May come and share her hidden rest;
May even lie where she doth lie,
With the same turf above my breast,
And the same stars and silent sky.





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