Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold
With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;
Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,
Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled,
Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled.
O saints, my belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould,
Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll'd,
See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold
Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,-
The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!
Cold it is, my belovèd, since your funeral bell was toll'd:
Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!
Marvel Of Marvels
Christina Rossetti
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Poem topics: alone, city, funeral, moon, head, rapture, bride, gold, I love you, I miss you, white, king, cold, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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