Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830–1894)

December 5

BURY Hope out of sight,

No book for it and no bell;

It never could bear the light

Even while growing and well;

Think if now it could bear

The light on its face of care

And grey scattered hair.

No grave for Hope in the earth,

But deep in that silent soul

Which rang no bell for its birth

And rings no funeral toll.

Cover its once bright head;

Nor odours nor tears be shed:

It lived once, it is dead.

Brief was the day of its power,

The day of its grace how brief:

As the fading of a flower,

As the falling of a leaf,

So brief its day and its hour:

No bud more and no bower

Or hint of a flower.

Shall many wail it? not so:

Shall one bewail it? not one:

Thus it hath been from long ago,

Thus it shall be beneath the sun.

O fleet sun, make haste to flee;

O rivers, fill up the sea;

O Death, set the dying free.

The sun nor loiters nor speeds,

The rivers run as they ran,

Through clouds or through windy reeds

All run as when all began.

Only Death turns at our cries:—

Lo, the Hope we buried with sighs

Alive in Death’s eyes!