Conference Between Christ, The Saints, And The Soul

A poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)

I am pale with sick desire,
For my heart is far away
From this world's fitful fire
And this world's waning day;
In a dream it overleaps
A world of tedious ills
To where the sunshine sleeps
On th' everlasting hills.
Say the Saints - There Angels ease us
Glorified and white.
They say - We rest in Jesus,
Where is not day nor night.

My Soul saith - I have sought
For a home that is not gained,
I have spent yet nothing bought,
Have laboured but not attained;
My pride strove to rise and grow,
And hath but dwindled down;
My love sought love, and lo!
Hath not attained its crown.
Say the Saints - Fresh Souls increase us,
None languish nor recede.
They say - We love our Jesus,
And He loves us indeed.

I cannot rise above,
I cannot rest beneath,
I cannot find out Love,
Nor escape from Death;
Dear hopes and joys gone by
Still mock me with a name;
My best belovèd die
And I cannot die with them.
Say the Saints - No deaths decrease us,
Where our rest is glorious.
They say - We live in Jesus,
Who once dièd for us.

Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings
And pants to fly away
Up to immortal Things
In the Heavenly day:
Yet she flags and almost faints;
Can such be meant for me?
Come and see - say the Saints.
Saith Jesus - Come and see.
Say the Saints - His Pleasures please us
Before God and the Lamb.
Come and taste My Sweets - saith Jesus -
Be with Me where I am.

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