Christina Rossetti, high priestess of the Rossetti bortherhood, wrote poems in the pre-Raphaelite tradition. She lived to seek reclusion into the age of 64.
I found her words "Sleeping at Last" are ones that my king and I like to echo every night at bedtime:
Sleeping at last, the trouble and tumult over,
Sleeping at last, the struggle and horror past,
Cold and white, out of sight of friend and of lover,
Sleeping at last.
No more a tired heart downcast or overcast,
No more pangs that wring or shifting fears that hover,
Sleeping at last in a dreamless sleep locked fast.
Fast asleep. singing birds in their leafy cover
Cannot wake her, nor shake her the gusty blast.
Under the purple thyme and the purple clover
Sleeping at last.
Alas, sleep this side of eternity rarely offers me the pleasure of dreamless sleep or that in which shifting fears cannot penetrate. Rather, dreams retell and then perhaps purge somtime the pangs and troubles of living days.
Of course, the sleep of death promises such absolute wiping of the slate clean such that we wake into the light of real day in our own chamber being prepared for us even today.
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1 comment:
I love her writing--I wrote my share of Rossetti papers in college. But I've never read that poem. Tell me, from what book did you retrieve it?
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