DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn,

But a white rose of Mary's gift On the neck meetly worn;

And her hair, lying down her back, Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day

One of God's choristers ; The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers ; Albeit, to them she left, her day

Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years : . . . Yet now, here in this place,

Surely she lean'd o'er me, her hair Fell all about my face. . . .

Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.)

It was the terrace of God's house That she was standing on,

By God built over the sheer depth In which Space is begun ;

So high, that looking downward thence, She scarce could see the sun.

It lies from Heaven across the flood

Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth

Spins like a fretful midge.

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