Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  When this song was a little gone abroad, a certain one of my friends, hearing the same, was pleased to question me, that I should tell him what thing love is; it may be, conceiving from the words thus heard a hope of me beyond my desert. Wherefore I, thinking that after such discourse it were well to say somewhat of the nature of Love, and also in accordance with my friend’s desire, proposed to myself to write certain words in the which I should treat of this argument. And the sonnet that I then made is this: -

  Love and the gentle heart are one same thing,

  Even as the wise man in his ditty saith.

  Each, of itself, would be such life in death

  As rational soul bereft of reasoning.

  ’Tis Nature makes them when she loves: a king

  Love is, whose palace where he sojourneth

  Is call’d the Heart; there draws he quiet breath

  At first, with brief or longer slumbering.

  Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind

  Will make the eyes desire, and through the heart

  Send the desiring of the eyes again;

  Where often it abides so long enshrined

  That Love at length out of his sleep will start.

  And women feel the same for worthy men.

  This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I speak of him according to his power. In the second, I speak of him according as his power translates itself into act. The second part begins here, ‘Then beauty seen’. The first is divided into two. In the first, I say in what subject this power exists. In the second, I say how this subject and this power are produced together, and how the one regards the other, as form does matter. The second begins here,”Tis Nature’. Afterwards when I say, ‘Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind’, I say how this power translates itself into act; and, first, how it so translates itself in a man, then how it so translates itself in a woman: here, ‘And women feel’.

  Having treated of love in the foregoing, it appeared to me that I should also say something in praise of my lady, wherein it might be set forth how love manifested itself when produced by her; and how not only she could awaken it where it slept, but where it was not she could marvellously create it. To the which end I wrote another sonnet; and it is this: -

  My lady carries love within her eyes;

  All that she looks on is made pleasanter;

  Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;

  He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,

  And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,

  And of his evil heart is then aware:

  Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper.

  Ο women, help to praise her in somewise.

  Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,

  By speech of hers into the mind are brought,

  And who beholds is blessed oftenwhiles.

  The look she hath when she a little smiles

  Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;

  ’Tis such a new and gracious miracle.

  This sonnet has three sections. In the first, I say how this lady brings this power into action by those most noble features, her eyes: and, in the third, I say this same as to that most noble feature, her mouth. And between these two sections is a little section, which asks, as it were, help for the previous section and the subsequent; and it begins here: ‘O women, help’. The third begins here, ‘Humbleness’. The first is divided into three; for, in the first, I say how she with power makes noble that which she looks upon; and this is as much as to say that she brings Love, in power, thither where he is not. In the second, I say how she brings Love, in act, into the hearts of all those whom she sees. In the third, I tell what she afterwards, with virtue, operates upon their hearts. The second begins, ‘Upon her path’; the third, ‘He whom she greeteth’. Then, when I say, ‘O women, help’, I intimate to whom it is my intention to speak, calling on women to help me to honour her. Then, when I say, ‘Humbleness’, I say that same which is said in the first part, regarding two acts of her mouth, one whereof is her most sweet speech, and the other her marvellous smile. Only, I say not of this last how it operates upon the hearts of others, because memory cannot retain this smile, nor its operation.

  Not many days after this (it being the will of the most High God, who also from Himself put not away death), the father of wonderful Beatrice, going out of this life, passed certainly into glory. Thereby it happened, as of very sooth it might not be otherwise, that this lady was made full of the bitterness of grief: seeing that such a parting is very grievous unto those friends who are left, and that no other friendship is like to that between a good parent and a good child; and furthermore considering that this lady was good in the supreme degree, and her father (as by many it hath been truly averred) of exceeding goodness. And because it is the usage of that city that men meet with men in such a grief, and women with women, certain ladies of her companionship gathered themselves unto Beatrice, where she kept alone in her weeping: and as they passed in and out, I could hear them speak concerning her, how she wept. At length two of them went by me, who said: ‘Certainly she grieveth in such sort that one might die for pity, beholding her.’ Then, feeling the tears upon my face, I put up my hands to hide them: and had it not been that I hoped to hear more concerning her (seeing that where I sat, her friends passed continually in and out), I should assuredly have gone thence to be alone, when I felt the tears come. But as I still sat in that place, certain ladies again passed near me, who were saying among themselves: ‘Which of us shall be joyful any more, who have listened to this lady in her piteous sorrow?’ And there were others who said as they went by me: ‘He that sitteth here could not weep more if he had beheld her as we have beheld her’; and again: ‘He is so altered that he seemeth not as himself.’ And still as the ladies passed to and fro, I could hear them speak after this fashion of her and of me.

  Wherefore afterwards, having considered and perceiving that there was herein matter for poesy, I resolved that I would write certain rhymes in the which should be contained all that those ladies had said. And because I would willingly have spoken to them if it had not been for discreetness, I made in my rhymes as though I had spoken and they had answered me. And thereof I wrote two sonnets; in the first of which I addressed them as I would fain have done; and in the second related their answer, using the speech that I had heard from them, as though it had been spoken unto myself. And the sonnets are these: -

  I

  You that thus wear a modest countenance

  With lids weigh’d down by the heart’s heaviness,

  Whence come you, that among you every face

  Appears the same, for its pale troubled glance?

  Have you beheld my lady’s face, perchance,

  Bow’d with the grief that Love makes full of grace?

  Say now, ‘This thing is thus;’ as my heart says,

  Marking your grave and sorrowful advance.

  And if indeed you come from where she sighs

  And mourns, may it please you (for his heart’s relief)

  To tell how it fares with her unto him

  Who knows that you have wept, seeing your eyes,

  And is so grieved with looking on your grief

  That his heart trembles and his sight grows dim.

  This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I call and ask these ladies whether they come from her, telling them that I think they do, because they return the nobler. In the second, I pray them to tell me of her: and the second begins here, ‘And if indeed’.

  II

  Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing

  Of our dear lady unto none but us?

  For though thy voice confirms that it is thus,

  Thy visage might another witness bring.

  And wherefore is thy grief so sore a thing

  That grieving thou mak’st others dolorous?

  Hast thou too seen her weep, that thou from us

  Canst not conceal thine inward sorr
owing?

  Nay, leave our woe to us: let us alone:

  ‘Twere sin if one should strive to soothe our woe,

  For in her weeping we have heard her speak:

  Also her look’s so full of her heart’s moan

  That they who should behold her, looking so,

  Must fall aswoon, feeling all life grow weak.

  This sonnet has four parts, as the ladies in whose person I reply had four forms of answer. And, because these are sufficiently shown above, I stay not to explain the purport of the parts, and therefore I only discriminate them. The second begins here, ‘And wherefore is thy grief’; the third here, ‘Nay, leave our woe’; the fourth, ‘Also her look’.

  A few days after this, my body became afflicted with a painful infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter anguish for many days, which at last brought me unto such weakness that I could no longer move. And I remember that on the ninth day, being overcome with intolerable pain, a thought came into my mind concerning my lady: but when it had a little nourished this thought, my mind returned to its brooding over mine enfeebled body. And then perceiving how frail a thing life is, even though health keep with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that I could not choose but weep; and weeping I said within myself: ‘Certainly it must some time come to pass that the very gentle Beatrice will die.’ Then, feeling bewildered, I closed mine eyes; and my brain began to be in travail as the brain of one frantic, and to have such imaginations as here follow.

  And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw certain faces of women with their hair loosened, which called out to me, ‘Thou shalt surely die;’ after the which, other terrible and unknown appearances said unto me, ‘Thou art dead.’ At length, as my phantasy held on in its wanderings, I came to be I knew not where, and to behold a throng of dishevelled ladies wonderfully sad, who kept going hither and thither Weeping. Then the sun went out, so that the stars showed themselves, and they were of such a colour that I knew they must be weeping; and it seemed to me that the birds fell dead out of the sky, and that there were great earthquakes. With that, while I wondered in my trance, and was filled with a grievous fear, I conceived that a certain friend came unto me and said: ‘Hast thou not heard? She that was thine excellent lady hath been taken out of life.’ Then I began to weep very piteously; and not only in mine imagination, but with mine eyes, which were wet with tears. And I seemed to look towards Heaven, and to behold a multitude of angels who were returning upwards, having before them an exceedingly white cloud: and these angels were singing together gloriously, and the words of their song were these: ‘Osanna in excelsis:’ and there was no more that I heard. Then my heart that was so full of love said unto me: ‘It is true that our lady lieth dead:’ and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body wherein that blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding-place. And so strong was this idle imagining, that it made me to behold my lady in death; whose head certain ladies seemed to be covering with a white veil; and who was so humble of her aspect that it was as though she had said, ‘I have attained to look on the beginning of peace.’ And therewithal I came unto such humility by the sight of her, that I cried out upon Death, saying: ‘Now come unto me, and be not bitter against me any longer: surely, there where thou hast been, thou hast learned gentleness. Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly desire thee: seest thou not that I wear thy colour already?’ And when I had seen all those offices performed that are fitting to be done unto the dead, it seemed to me that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked up towards heaven. And so strong was my phantasy, that I wept again in very truth, and said with my true voice: ‘O excellent soul! How blessed is he that now looketh upon thee!’

  And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies, who were about the room, becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan that she made (who indeed was of my very near kindred), led her away from where I was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and saying: ‘Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted.’ Then, by their words, this strong imagination was brought suddenly to an end, at the moment that I was about to say, ‘O Beatrice! peace be with thee.’ And already I had said, ‘O Beatrice!’ when being aroused, I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs, that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in spite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love’s counselling. And when they beheld me, they began to say, ‘He seemeth as one dead,’ and to whisper among themselves, ‘Let us strive if we may not comfort him.’ Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned me moreover touching the cause of my fear. Then I, being somewhat reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto them, ‘This thing it was that made me afeard;’ and told them of all that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my sickness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme; deeming it a lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem: -

  A very pitiful lady, very young,

  Exceeding rich in human sympathies,

  Stood by, what time I clamour’d upon Death;

  And at the wild words wandering on my tongue

  And at the piteous look within mine eyes

  She was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath.

  So by her weeping where I lay beneath,

  Some other gentle ladies came to know

  My state, and made her go:

  Aftrward, bending themselves over me,

  One said, ‘Awaken thee!’

  And one, ‘What thing thy sleep disquieteth?’

  With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse,

  The while my lady’s name rose to my lips:

  But utter’d in a voice so sob-broken,

  So feeble with the agony of tears,

  That I alone might hear it in my heart;

  And though that look was on my visage then

  Which he who is ashamed so plainly wears,

  Love made that I through shame held not apart,

  But gazed upon them. And my hue was such

  That they look’d at each other and thought of death;

  Saying under their breath

  Most tenderly, Oh, let us comfort him:’

  Then unto me: ‘What dream

  Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?’

  And when I was a little comforted,

  ‘This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,’ I said.

  ‘I was a-thinking how life fails with us

  Suddenly after a little while;

  When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home.

  Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorous

  That in myself I said, with sick recoil:

  “Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.”

  And therewithal such a bewiderment

  Possess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;

  And in my brain did cease

  Order of thought, and every healthful thing.

  Afterwards, wandering

  Amid a swarm of doubts that came and went,

  Some certain women’s faces hurried by,

  And shriek’d to me, “Thou too shalt die, shalt die!”

  ‘Then saw I many broken hinted sights

  In the uncertain state I stepp’d into.

  Meseem’d to be I know not in what place,

  Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights,

  Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten’d you

  By their own terror, and a pale amaze:

  The while, little by little, as I thought,

  The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,

  And each wept at the other
;

  And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky;

  And earth shook suddenly;

  And I was ‘ware of one, hoarse and tired out,

  Who ask’d of me: “Hast thou not heard it said?...

  Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.”

  ‘Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,

  I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,

  In a long flight flying back Heavenward;

  Having a little cloud in front of them,

  After the which they went and said, “Hosanna!”

  And if they had said more, you should have heard.

  Then Love spoke thus: “Now all shall be made clear:

  Come and behold our lady where she lies.”

  These idle phantasies

  Then carried me to see my lady dead:

  And standing at her head

  Her ladies put a white veil over her;

  And with her was such very humbleness

  That she appeared to say, “I am at peace.”

  ‘And I became so humble in my grief,

  Seeing in her such deep humility,

  That I said: “Death, I hold thee passing good

  Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,

  Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:

  Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.

  Lo! I do so desire to see thy face

  That I am like as one who nears the tomb;

  My soul entreats thee, Come.”