Christina Rossetti


The spinster sister lay in the library

Throat engorged with pus

Coughing and writing as

The party raged around her

She wrote of goblins and harebells and

Withheld grace. She had

Good reason to complain

Of harsh treatment from her lover

He who turned away his face

No matter how she strove to please him.

That was why she burned

The story of the man who escaped

His own reflection?

“Suck me, eat me, love me”

she wrote; yet He refused

the smallest taste.

How’s that fair when she

Had eaten wheatfields of His flesh;

Tasted oceans of His blood?

“Thy will be done.”

Face to the wall she died

In fear of Hell; shriven but


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