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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360763" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Stratton Water</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">“O HAVE you seen the Stratton flood<br>That's great with rain to-day?<br>It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands,<br>Full of the new-mown hay.<br>“I led your hounds to Hutton bank<br>To bathe at early morn:<br>They got their bath by Borrowbrake<br>Above the standing corn.”<br>Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands<br>Looked up the western lea;<br>The rook was grieving on her nest,<br>The flood was round her tree.<br>Over the castle-wall Lord Sands<br>Looked down the eastern hill:<br>The stakes swam free among the boats,<br>The flood was rising still.<br>“What's yonder far below that lies<br>So white against the slope?”<br>“O it's a sail o' your bonny barks<br>The waters have washed up.”<br>“But I have never a sail so white,<br>And the water's not yet there.”<br>“O it's the swans o' your bonny lake<br>The rising flood doth scare.”<br>“The swans they would not hold so still,<br>So high they would not win.”<br>“O it's Joyce my wife has spread her smock<br>And fears to fetch it in.”<br>“Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans,<br>Nor aught that you can say;<br>For though your wife might leave her smock,<br>Herself she'd bring away.”<br>Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair,<br>The court, and yard, and all;<br>The kine were in the byre that day,<br>The nags were in the stall. <br>Lord Sands has won the weltering slope<br>Whereon the white shape lay:<br>The clouds were still above the hill,<br>And the shape was still as they.<br>Oh pleasant is the gaze of life<br>And sad is death's blind head;<br>But awful are the living eyes<br>In the face of one thought dead!<br>“In God's name, Janet, is it me<br>Thy ghost has come to seek?”<br>“Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands,—<br>Be sure my ghost shall speak.”<br>A moment stood he as a stone,<br>Then grovelled to his knee.<br>“O Janet, O my love, my love,<br>Rise up and come with me!”<br>“O once before you bade me come,<br>And it's here you have brought me!<br>“O many's the sweet word, Lord Sands,<br>You've spoken oft to me;<br>But all that I have from you to-day<br>Is the rain on my body.<br>“And many's the good gift, Lord Sands,<br>You've promised oft to me;<br>But the gift of yours I keep to-day<br>Is the babe in my body.<br>“O it's not in any earthly bed<br>That first my babe I'll see;<br>For I have brought my body here<br>That the flood may cover me.”<br>His face was close against her face,<br>His hands of hers were fain:<br>O her wet cheeks were hot with tears,<br>Her wet hands cold with rain.<br>“They told me you were dead, Janet,—<br>How could I guess the lie?”<br>“They told me you were false, Lord Sands,—<br>What could I do but die?”<br>“Now keep you well, my brother Giles,—<br>Through you I deemed her dead!<br>As wan as your towers seem to-day,<br>To-morrow they'll be red. <br>“Look down, look down, my false mother,<br>That bade me not to grieve:<br>You'll look up when our marriage fires<br>Are lit to-morrow eve:<br>“O more than one and more than two<br>The sorrow of this shall see:<br>But it's to-morrow, love, for them,—<br>To-day's for thee and me.”<br>He's drawn her face between his hands<br>And her pale mouth to his:<br>No bird that was so still that day<br>Chirps sweeter than his kiss.<br>The flood was creeping round their feet. <br>“O Janet, come away!<br>The hall is warm for the marriage-rite,<br>The bed for the birthday.”<br>“Nay, but I hear your mother cry,<br>‘Go bring this bride to bed!<br>And would she christen her babe unborn,<br>So wet she comes to wed?’<br>“I'll be your wife to cross your door<br>And meet your mother's e'e.<br>We plighted troth to wed i' the kirk,<br>And it's there you'll wed with me.”<br>He's ta'en her by the short girdle<br>And by the dripping sleeve:<br>“Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest,—<br>You'll ask of him no leave.<br>“O it's one half-hour to reach the kirk<br>And one for the marriage-rite;<br>And kirk and castle and castle-lands<br>Shall be our babe's to-night.”<br>“The flood's in the kirkyard, Lord Sands,<br>And round the belfry-stair.”<br>“I bade you fetch the priest,” he said,<br>“Myself shall bring him there.<br>“It's for the lilt of wedding bells<br>We'll have the hail to pour,<br>And for the clink of bridle-reins<br>The plashing of the oar.”<br>Beneath them on the nether hill<br>A boat was floating wide:<br>Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars<br>And rowed to the hill-side.<br>He's wrapped her in a green mantle<br>And set her softly in;<br>Her hair was wet upon her face,<br>Her face was grey and thin;<br>And “Oh!” she said, “lie still, my babe,<br>It's out you must not win!”<br>But woe's my heart for Father John<br>As hard as he might pray,<br>There seemed no help but Noah's ark<br>Or Jonah's fish that day.<br>The first strokes that the oars struck<br>Were over the broad leas;<br>The next strokes that the oars struck<br>They pushed beneath the trees;<br>The last stroke that the oars struck,<br>The good boat's head was met,<br>And there the gate of the kirk-yard<br>Stood like a ferry-gate. <br>He's set his hand upon the bar<br>And lightly leaped within:<br>He's lifted her to his left shoulder,<br>Her knees beside his chin.<br>The graves lay deep beneath the flood <br>Under the rain alone;<br>And when the foot-stone made him slip,<br>He held by the head-stone.<br>The empty boat thrawed i' the wind,<br>Against the postern tied.<br>“Hold still, you've brought my love with me,<br>You shall take back my bride.”<br>But woe's my heart for Father John<br>And the saints he clamoured to!<br>There's never a saint but Christopher<br>Might hale such buttocks through!<br>And “Oh!” she said, “on men's shoulders<br>I well had thought to wend,<br>And well to travel with a priest,<br>But not to have cared or ken'd.<br>“And oh!” she said, “it's well this way<br>That I thought to have fared,—<br>Not to have lighted at the kirk<br>But stopped in the kirkyard.<br>“For it's oh and oh I prayed to God,<br>Whose rest I hoped to win,<br>That when to-night at your board-head<br>You'd bid the feast begin,<br>This water past your window-sill<br>Might bear my body in.”<br>Now make the white bed warm and soft<br>And greet the merry morn;<br>The night the mother should have died,<br>The young son shall be born.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Dante+Gabriel+Rossetti">Dante Gabriel Rossetti</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360763" data-title="Stratton Water de Dante Gabriel Rossetti" data-description="“O HAVE you seen the Stratton flood
That's great with rain to-day?
It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands,
Full of the new-mown hay.
“I led your hounds to Hutton bank
To bathe at early morn:
They got their bath by Borrowbrake
Above the standing..."></div>
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