Winds blowing, waters flowing, trees stirring,
insects whirring (dear me! I’m quite unconsciously
writing rhyme)...
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. The Little Lame Prince.
...suddenly there uprose from a chair and paced
forward into the center of the room a little woman
dressed in black, who announced solemnly, “I am
Christine Rossetti!” and having so said, returned to her chair.
Mary F. Sanders. Life of Christine Rossetti.
Again I lied. And you
You didn’t trust the truth.
The truth I never knew.
In lying we were two,
or yet we were three.
I came too late, and you?
You didn’t come at all.
T’was neither biting as a rue,
nor bitter to recall
the names of two citrus trees.
The mien of a startled nu
we never overthrew,
we couldn’t start anew,
t’was over through and through
on its way into Poetry.
It wasn’t the abstruse,
the reinvented rain
that swept us, but the ruse
that ruined the quatrain
and washed off our tryst
running down the toothless cleft
under forgotten pine
that still stands on the left
distorted and malign
in the pining Memory
Into the fifth and ruthless line.
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