CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI

Now there are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear;

Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there :

Or is the hunger fed at length. Cast off the care ?

We never saw her with a smile

Or with a frown ; Her bed seem'd never soft to her,

Though toss'd of down ; She little heeded what she wore,

Kirtle, or wreath, or gown ; We think her white brows often ached

Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks

That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste :

Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much

As it was meet : Her heart sat silent through the noise

And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands,

No hurry in her feet ; There was no bliss drew nigh to her,

That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday,

Wasting upon her bed : But wherefore should you weep to-day

That she is dead?

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