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 through 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 though I am cold.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sonnet Sunday: Rossetti
An experiemental sonnet. It starts out in the same form as last week's sonnet (a Petrarchan or Italian sonnet) but shifts out of scheme for the last few lines emphasizing them especially.