A Portrait of a Pensive Victorian IV

Gone were but the Winter

Come were but the Spring,

I would go to a covert

Where the birds sing;


Where in the whitethorn

Singeth a thrush,

And a Robin sings

In the holly-bush.


Full of fresh scents

Are the budding boughs

Arching high over

A cool green house:


Full of sweet scents,

And whispering air

Which sayeth softly:

“We spread no snare;


“Here dwell in safety,

Here dwell alone,

With a clear stream

And a mossy stone.


“Here the sun shineth

Most shadily;

Here is heard an echo

Of the far sea,

Though far off it be.”


Christina RossettiImage

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