This poem, written by a woman who was born in 1830, is startling in its blunt erotic misery, its ambiguous coded language, its independence, its dependence, its religious resignation, its refusal to align itself with such automatic resignation, its strange and disturbing final line.

Twice

Christina Rossetti

I took my heart in my hand,

            (O my love, O my love),

I said: Let me fall or stand,

            Let me live or die,

But this once hear me speak—

            (O my love, O my love)—

Yet a woman’s words are weak;

            You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand

            With a friendly smile,

With a critical eye you scanned,

            Then set it down,

And said: It is still unripe

            Better wait awhile;

Wait while the skylarks pipe,

            Till the corn grows brown.

As you set it down it broke—

            Broke, but did not wince;

I smiled at the speech you spoke,

            At your judgment that I heard:

But I have not often smiled

            Since then, nor questioned since,

Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,

            Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand,

            O my God, O my God,

My broken heart in my hand:

            Thou hast seen, judge Thou.

My hope was written on sand,

            O my God, O my God:

Now let thy judgment stand—

            Yea, judge me now.

This contemned of a man,

            This marred one heedless day,

This heart take Thou to scan

            Both within and without:

Refine with fire its gold,

            Purge Thou its dross away—

Yea hold it in Thy hold,

            Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand—

            I shall not die, but live—

Before Thy face I stand;

            I, for Thou callest such:

All that I have I bring,

            All that I am I give;

Smile Thou and I shall sing,

            But shall not question much.