Christina Rossetti, one of my favourite poets, had a penchant for dwelling on the melancholic. A committed Christian, she seemed to ring an equal measure of joy and pain from her faith. I understand this, for  we are always falling short, disappointing or repeating past errors. As Thomas a Kempis notes in his Imitation of Christ, no sooner have we risen from our knees having pledged to be better, stronger or more committed than we are letting God down. Such is the human condition.

Rossetti, like many Victorian poets, was drawn to the topic of death, doubtless by the many life-ending maladies that took lives before their time was due. In Rossetti's case, I cant help but feel that like Keats, she was 'half in love with easeful death.' It is a good topic for poets, after all.

Thou Sleepest Where The Lilies Fade

Thou sleepest where the lilies fade,

    Thou dwellest where the lilies fade not;

Sweet, when thine earthly part decayed

        Thy heavenly part decayed not.

 

Thou dwellest where the roses blow,

    The crimson roses bud and blossom;

While on thine eyes is heaped the snow,

        The snow upon thy bosom.