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Best Famous Christina Rossetti Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Christina Rossetti poems. This is a select list of the best famous Christina Rossetti poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Christina Rossetti poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Christina Rossetti poems.

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Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

A Daughter of Eve

A fool I was to sleep at noon,
  And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
  A fool to snap my lily.
My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.
Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:— Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

Remember

 Remember me when I am gone away,
 Gone far away into the silent land;
 When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

The First Day

 I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of my tree That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such A day of days! I let it come and go As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much! If only now I could recall that touch, First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

Uphill

 DOES the road wind uphill all the way? 
 Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

In an Artists Studio

One face looks out from all his canvases,
     One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
     We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens, A saint, an angel—every canvas means The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him, Fair as the moon and joyful as the light: Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; No as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

A Birthday

 My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Free Verse

 I now delight 
In spite 
Of the might 
And the right 
Of classic tradition, 
In writing 
And reciting 
Straight ahead, 
Without let or omission, 
Just any little rhyme
In any little time 
That runs in my head; 
Because, I’ve said, 
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march, 
Stiff as starch, 
Foot to foot, 
Boot to boot, 
Blade to blade,
Button to button, 
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No! My rhymes must go Turn ’ee, twist ’ee, Twinkling, frosty, Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty; Rhymes I will make Like Keats and Blake And Christina Rossetti, With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty To take A merry little rhyme In a jolly little time And poke it, And choke it, Change it, arrange it, Straight-lace it, deface it, Pleat it with pleats, Sheet it with sheets Of empty conceits, And chop and chew, And hack and hew, And weld it into a uniform stanza, And evolve a neat, Complacent, complete, Academic extravaganza!
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

Sleeping at last

 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.
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

The Thread of Life

 I
The irresponsive silence of the land, 
The irresponsive sounding of the sea, 
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
II Thus am I mine own prison.
Everything Around me free and sunny and at ease: Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing And where all winds make various murmuring; Where bees are found, with honey for the bees; Where sounds are music, and where silences Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew, And smile a moment and a moment sigh Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you? But soon I put the foolish fancy by: I am not what I have nor what I do; But what I was I am, I am even I.
III Therefore myself is that one only thing I hold to use or waste, to keep or give; My sole possession every day I live, And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanitive; Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve; And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me; Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing A sweet new song of His redeemed set free; he bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting? And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

From Sunset to Star Rise

 Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not: 
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold, 
A silly sheep benighted from the fold, 
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot, Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold; Lest you with me should shiver on the wold, Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer's unreturning track.
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