In Progress
Ten years ago it seemed
impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With
self-remembrance in her
warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an
exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely
monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime,
patient in her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may
one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes
lightnings and her shoulders
wings.
Christina Rossetti 1862, 1896