Chamodi Waidyathilaka

“Two Pursuits
A voice said: ‘Follow, follow:’ and I rose
And followed far into the dreamy night, Turning my back upon the pleasant light.
It led me where the bluest water ows,
And would not let me drink; where the corn grows
I dared not pause, but went uncheered by sight Or touch; until at length in evil plight
It left me, wearied out with many woes. Some time I sat as one bereft of sense:
But soon another voice from very far Called: ‘Follow, follow:’ and I rose again.°
Now on my night has dawned a blesséd star;
Kind, steady hands my sinking steps sustain, And will not leave me till I shall go hence.”
― Christina Rossetti, The Complete Poems

“The Isle of Moila is the first stop past Tobermory. It is not a large island, perhaps nine miles by five, with formidable cliffs to the north-west that face the weather like the prow of a ship. From the steep sheep-bitten turf at the head of these cliffs the land slopes gently down towards a glen where the island’s only sizeable river runs seawards out of a loch cupped in a shallow basin among low hills. Presumably the loch – lochan, rather, for it is not large – is fed by springs eternally replenished by the rain, for nothing flows into it except small burns seeping through rush and bog myrtle, which spread after storms into sodden quagmires of moss. But the outflow is perennially full, white water pouring down to where the moor cleaves open and lets it fall to the sea.”
― Mary Stewart

“When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;°
And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.°”
― Christina Rossetti, The Complete Poems

“The First Spring Day

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus res are kindling one by one:
Sing, robin, sing;
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
I wonder if the springtide of this year
Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;
If heart and spirit will nd out their Spring,
Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
Sing, hope, to me;
Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.
The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom,
Or in this world, or in the world to come:
Sing, voice of Spring,
Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.”
― Christina Rossetti, The Complete Poems