![]() Rossetti's mother began teaching in order to keep the family out of poverty and Maria became a live-in governess, a prospect that Christina Rossetti dreaded. He gave up his teaching post at King's College and though he lived another 11 years, he suffered from depression and was never physically well again. In 1843, he was diagnosed with persistent bronchitis, possibly tuberculosis, and faced losing his sight. In the 1840s, her family faced severe financial difficulties due to the deterioration of her father's physical and mental health. Portrait of Christina Rossetti, by her brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti ![]() The family homes in Bloomsbury at 38 and later 50 Charlotte Street were within easy reach of Madam Tussauds, London Zoo and the newly opened Regent's Park, which she visited regularly in contrast to her parents, Rossetti was very much a London child, and, it seems, a happy one. Their home was open to visiting Italian scholars, artists and revolutionaries. The influence of the work of Dante Alighieri, Petrarch and other Italian writers filled the home and would have a deep impact on Rossetti's later writing. Rossetti delighted in the works of Keats, Scott, Ann Radcliffe and Monk Lewis. Rossetti was educated at home by her mother, who had her study religious works, classics, fairy tales and novels. She dictated her first story to her mother before she had learned to write. Christina, the youngest, was a lively child. She had two brothers and a sister: Dante became an influential artist and poet, and William and Maria both became writers. Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread.Christina Rossetti was born at 38 Charlotte Street (now 105 Hallam Street), London to Gabriele Rossetti, a poet and a political exile from Vasto, Abruzzo, and Frances Polidori, the sister of Lord Byron's friend and physician, John William Polidori. ![]() You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep today That she is dead? Lo we who love weep not today, But crown her royal head. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet. We never heard her speak in haste Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair, Now these are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care? We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown. Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leaped, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow. "BRIDE SONG Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.
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