Poetry Friday XVI - the thread of life

This blog is turning into a poetry Friday blog! I have recently made the decision to move from where I am living in order to create a little more space, physical and otherwise, for doing certain things (I currently live in a three bedroom apartment, with a total of four people, and give myself a back ache using my laptop on the floor in my rather crowded bedroom, piled with books, crochet projects etc). "Flatting" is a strange concept I find - it's very different to family, in that it generally involves several people living their separate lives from the same base, and not endeavouring or expecting to build a life together in the way that you would in a family. I think I am up to my 29th flatmate since I left home. And while I acknowledge the benefits of living with such a variety of people, in knocking your corners off, there comes a time in life when you just feel like having a little more control over, and freedom in, your environment - and living outside your bedroom. So, while I am not moving so I will have more "space" to blog, it will be interesting to see what becomes of me :). Being a classic introvert, who is quite happy to live vicariously in books, I know I am going to have to work hard on some things - but I am looking forward to reading those books on a couch in a loungeroom (if my budget will allow a loungeroom).

Anyway, here is my poem for today, and I am back to Christina Rossetti:

The Thread of Life

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

(1830-1894)

I

The irresponsive silence of the land,

The irresponsive sounding of the sea,

Speak both one message of one sense to me:--

Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand

Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band

Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;

But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?

What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--

And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,

And sometimes I remember days of old

When fellowship seemed not so far to seek

And all the world and I seemed much less cold,

And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,

And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

II

Thus am I mine own prison. Everything

Around me free and sunny and at ease:

Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees

Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing

And where all winds make various murmuring;

Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;

Where sounds are music, and where silences

Are music of an unlike fashioning.

Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,

And smile a moment and a moment sigh

Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?

But soon I put the foolish fancy by:

I am not what I have nor what I do;

But what I was I am, I am even I.

III

Therefore myself is that one only thing

I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;

My sole possession every day I live,

And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.

Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring

From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanitive;

Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;

And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.

And this myself as king unto my King

I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;

Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing

A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;

He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?

And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?