Verse > Anthologies > T. H. Ward, ed. > The English Poets > Vol. IV. Wordsworth to Rossetti
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Thomas Humphry Ward, ed.  The English Poets.  1880–1918.
Vol. IV. The Nineteenth Century: Wordsworth to Rossetti
 
The Portrait
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)
 
THIS is her picture as she was:
  It seems a thing to wonder on,
As though mine image in the glass
  Should tarry when myself am gone.
I gaze until she seems to stir,—        5
Until mine eyes almost aver
  That now, even now, the sweet lips part
  To breathe the words of the sweet heart:—
And yet the earth is over her.
 
Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray        10
  That makes the prison-depths more rude,—
The drip of water night and day
  Giving a tongue to solitude.
Yet this, of all love’s perfect prize,
Remains; save what in mournful guise        15
  Takes counsel with my soul alone,—
  Save what is secret and unknown,
Below the earth, above the skies.
 
In painting her I shrined her face
  Mid mystic trees, where light falls in        20
Hardly at all; a covert place
  Where you may think to find a din
Of doubtful talk, and a live flame
Wandering, and many a shape whose name
  Not itself knoweth, and old dew,        25
  And your own footsteps meeting you,
And all things going as they came.
 
A deep dim wood; and there she stands
  As in that wood that day: for so
Was the still movement of her hands        30
  And such the pure line’s gracious flow.
And passing fair the type must seem,
Unknown the presence and the dream.
  ’Tis she: though of herself, alas!
  Less than her shadow on the grass        35
Or than her image in the stream.
 
That day we met there, I and she
  One with the other all alone;
And we were blithe; yet memory
  Saddens those hours, as when the moon        40
Looks upon daylight. And with her
I stooped to drink the spring-water,
  Athirst where other waters sprang;
  And where the echo is, she sang,—
My soul another echo there.        45
 
But when that hour my soul won strength
  For words whose silence wastes and kills,
Dull raindrops smote us, and at length
  Thundered the heat within the hills.
That eve I spoke those words again        50
Beside the pelted window-pane;
  And there she hearkened what I said,
  With under-glances that surveyed
The empty pastures blind with rain.
 
Next day the memories of these things,        55
  Like leaves through which a bird has flown,
Still vibrated with Love’s warm wings;
  Till I must make them all my own
And paint this picture. So, ’twixt ease
Of talk and sweet long silences,        60
  She stood among the plants in bloom
  At windows of a summer room,
To feign the shadow of the trees.
 
And as I wrought, while all above
  And all around was fragrant air,        65
In the sick burthen of my love
  It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there
Beat like a heart among the leaves.
O heart that never beats nor heaves,
  In that one darkness lying still,        70
  What now to thee my love’s great will
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?
 
For now doth daylight disavow
  Those days,—nought left to see or hear.
Only in solemn whispers now        75
  At night-time these things reach mine ear,
When the leaf-shadows at a breath
Shrink in the road, and all the heath,
  Forest and water, far and wide,
  In limpid starlight glorified,        80
Lie like the mystery of death.
 
Last night at last I could have slept,
  And yet delayed my sleep till dawn,
Still wandering. Then it was I wept:
  For unawares I came upon        85
Those glades where once she walked with me:
And as I stood there suddenly,
  All wan with traversing the night,
  Upon the desolate verge of light
Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea.        90
 
Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears
  The beating heart of Love’s own breast,—
Where round the secret of all spheres
  All angels lay their wings to rest,—
How shall my soul stand rapt and awed,        95
When, by the new birth borne abroad
  Throughout the music of the suns,
  It enters in her soul at once
And knows the silence there for God!
 
Here with her face doth memory sit        100
  Meanwhile, and wait the day’s decline,
Till other eyes shall look from it,
  Eyes of the spirit’s Palestine,
Even than the old gaze tenderer:
While hopes and aims long lost with her        105
  Stand round her image side by side,
  Like tombs of pilgrims that have died
About the Holy Sepulchre.
 
 
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