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Poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti


At Issue


THAT voice I hear,how heard I cannot tell,
Although my home is this, seems from my home:
There still it trails along and murmurs Come;
Like the slow death of sound within a bell,
Or like the humming whine in some pink shell
Wet with the brittle beadage of the foam
Which birdeyed damsels stoop for when they roam
By the old sea. Were't not exceeding well
To shake my soul out of this tiresome life
For a call anywhence and anywhither?
That voice knows all the life I have or had,
And mocks me not,it's whisper is too sad.
Even to attain calm sorrow lures me thither,
Since here this search for joy wearies like strife. 



Dante Gabriel Rossetti


Dante Gabriel Rossetti's other poems:
  1. The House of Life. Sonnet 3. Love's Testament
  2. The House of Life. Sonnet 20. Gracious Moonlight
  3. The House of Life. Sonnet 39. Sleepless Dreams
  4. The House of Life. Sonnet 99. Newborn Death - 1
  5. The Staff and Scrip


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