Poetry

After Death

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where thro’ the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
“Poor child, poor child:” and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm tho’ I am cold.

Christina Rossetti 

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My Garden

We all must tend the garden of life
That flourishes in our hearts,
Weeding, Feeding, Reaping, Sowing
The flora therein by parts.

For each part the gardener decides
What its fate will be:
To run rampant where the flower may choose
Or be carried off with the breeze.

To you I said, "Run rampant and free!"
Your roots spread and grew.
While the aroma wafted up, we heard
The breeze whisper, "I love you."
Poem by Rachelli

 

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