Verse > Anthologies > J. C. Squire, ed. > A Book of Women’s Verse
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J. C. Squire, ed.  A Book of Women’s Verse.  1921.
 
Bride-Song
By Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)
 
(From ‘The Prince’s Progress’)

TOO late for love, too late for joy,
    Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
    You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch        5
    Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
    Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
    You made it wait.        10
 
Ten years ago, five years ago,
    One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
    Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face        15
    Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
    The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
    To melt the snow.        20
 
Is she fair now as she lies?
    Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
    With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,        25
    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?        30
 
We never saw her with a smile
    Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
    Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,        35
    Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
    Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
    That used to be so brown.        40
 
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        45
    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.        50
 
You should have wept her yesterday,
    Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
    That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,        55
    But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
    Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
    Cut down and spread.        60
 
 
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