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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365826" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Poems Beyond the Grave</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">They took their shovels and digging tools<br>To the top of Highgate Hill, <br>They walked in a deadly silence there<br>In the dusk, in the evening chill, <br>They picked their way through the deep-laid bones, <br>The monuments, great and small, <br>And looked for the plain Rossetti stone<br>In their search for Elizabeth Siddal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That red-haired, wraithlike, ghostly girl<br>Who had charmed the PRB, <br>She'd sat, at first, for Deverell<br>Who was doomed, with Bright's Disease, <br>She'd fallen hard for the artist then<br>Though her love was never returned, <br>For Deverell died so suddenly -<br>It was as if her love was spurned.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She sat for Dante Gabriel, <br>For Holman Hunt, Millais, <br>As the model for drowned Ophelia<br>In an ice cold bath she lay, <br>She lent her beauty to every brush, <br>Each stroke laid bare her soul, <br>When she looked around for herself she found<br>There was nothing left at all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rossetti had kept her close to him<br>As he slowly became obsessed, <br>He scribbled a dozen portraits from<br>Her head to her heaving breast, <br>He placed her high on a pedestal, <br>A Madonna in all but name, <br>But kept his physical love from her<br>That she might not suffer shame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He penned the poems he wrote for her<br>In a small, grey calf-skin book, <br>He carried the poems everywhere<br>As a proof of the love it took, <br>He made no copies, he held them close<br>They were food for a future muse, <br>For his art and poetry vied with him -<br>It was painting he would choose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But she; who knew what rent her soul, <br>The cravings she despaired? <br>She sipped at the potion laudanum<br>As her heart and her mind were bared, <br>She scribbled the weary verses that<br>Spoke love, of a love long-lost, <br>While Dante frolicked with Annie Hughes<br>At Elizabeth Siddal's cost.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As Lizzie despaired on laudanum<br>She had ceased to be of use, <br>Her visage was sad, and aged and drawn<br>In the sick room of abuse, <br>While girls with youth, vitality<br>And an earthy yen for sin<br>Like Fanny Cornforth, came to sit -<br>And Rossetti let them in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They wed, but much as a faded dream<br>The knot had been tied too late, <br>As Lizzie, dying a little each day<br>Succumbed to a morbid fate, <br>For one dark night she had laid her down<br>Penned a final note, to whit: <br>'My life has become so miserable<br>That I want no more of it.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She lay by an empty laudanum phial, <br>Rossetti was quite distraught, <br>He'd loved her, but with a purer love<br>Than his lust or his money bought, <br>His grief was such, as he laid her down<br>In her coffin, she looked so fair, <br>That he placed the book of his poems <br>Between her cheek and her auburn hair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The years went on and he sank himself<br>In a pit of despond, unwell, <br>Withdrew from his friends and dosed himself<br>With a phial of chloral, <br>His painting suffered, his income too, <br>He turned to the ancient muse, <br>And thought of the poems beyond the grave, <br>He knew that he'd have to choose! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He wrote to Charles Augustus Howell<br>A rogue that he'd used before, <br>To test him; whether to dig her up<br>Or to lose his poems forever; <br>Howell replied he should get them back, <br>Or he'd lose them to death, for good, <br>'Your works are the works of genius, <br>Bring them back to the world - You should! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So Howell, he toiled up Highgate Hill<br>While Dante hid in his lair, <br>Too scared to look on his love again, <br>His muse with the auburn hair, <br>A fire was lit in the dead of night<br>The coffin was raised on high, <br>His love was torn from her deathly stare<br>They could almost hear her sigh.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The book was caught in her tangled hair<br>Which had filled the coffin's space, <br>And she was lovely, and quite serene<br>As they lifted the book from her face, <br>They lowered her gently, back in the ground<br>That had served as her awful tomb, <br>She lay defiled like a bride, reviled, <br>But without her lawful groom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rossetti published his poems then, <br>They sold by the thousandfold, <br>For Howell had leaked the story out<br>That he hadn't wanted told; <br>But a fate awaited Augustus Howell<br>A revenge that would beggar belief, <br>He was found, throat cut in the gutter -<br>With a coin, tight clenched in his teeth! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">25 April 2009</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=David+Lewis+Paget">David Lewis Paget</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=365826" data-title="Poems Beyond the Grave de David Lewis Paget" data-description="They took their shovels and digging tools
To the top of Highgate Hill, 
They walked in a deadly silence there
In the dusk, in the evening chill, 
They picked their way through the deep-laid bones, 
The monuments, great and small, 
And looked for t..."></div>
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