Unthinkable Wings

I've more or less failed at posting poetry this month. On the other hand, today is the commemoration of Christina Rossetti (as I was reminded at morning prayer this morning), so I have no excuse for forgetting today.

This one is a bit of a curiosity, really, and I wouldn't claim it's her greatest work. On the other hand, I rather like it; mostly because I recognise the sentiment, as an Anglican catholic - the admiration of Newman and sympathy for him - with a slight hint of ambiguity...

Cardinal Newman.

“In the grave, whither thou goest.”

O weary Champion of the Cross, lie still:
Sleep thou at length the all-embracing sleep:
Long was thy sowing day, rest now and reap:
Thy fast was long, feast now thy spirit’s fill.
Yea, take thy fill of love, because thy will
Chose love not in the shallows but the deep:
Thy tides were springtides, set against the neap
Of calmer souls: thy flood rebuked their rill.
Now night has come to thee — please God, of rest:
So some time must it come to every man;
To first and last, where many last are first.
Now fixed and finished thine eternal plan,
Thy best has done its best, thy worst its worst:
Thy best its best, please God, thy best its best.