CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI
She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown ;
We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks That used to be bo brown.
��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
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.
��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,
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.
�� �
