A Coast-Nightmare

Christina Rossetti - 1830-1894

I have a friend in ghostland—
   Early found, ah me, how early lost!—
Blood-red seaweeds drip along that coastland
   By the strong sea wrenched and tossed.
In every creek there slopes a dead man’s islet,
   And such an one in every bay;
All unripened in the unended twilight:
   For there comes neither night nor day.

Unripe harvest there hath none to reap it
   From the watery misty place;
Unripe vineyard there hath none to keep it
   In unprofitable space.
Living flocks and herds are nowhere found there;
   Only ghosts in flocks and shoals:
Indistinguished hazy ghosts surround there
   Meteors whirling on their poles;
Indistinguished hazy ghosts abound there;
   Troops, yea swarms, of dead men’s souls.—

Have they towns to live in?—
   They have towers and towns from sea to sea;
Of each town the gates are seven;
   Of one of these each ghost is free.
Civilians, soldiers, seamen,
   Of one town each ghost is free:
They are ghastly men those ghostly freemen:
   Such a sight may you not see.—

How know you that your lover
   Of death’s tideless waters stoops to drink?—
Me by night doth mouldy darkness cover,
   It makes me quake to think:
All night long I feel his presence hover
   Thro’ the darkness black as ink.

Without a voice he tells me
   The wordless secrets of death’s deep:
If I sleep, his trumpet voice compels me
   To stalk forth in my sleep:
If I wake, he hunts me like a nightmare;
   I feel my hair stand up, my body creep:
Without light I see a blasting sight there,
   See a secret I must keep.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on October 22, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

Born in 1830 in London, Christina Rossetti, the author of Goblin Market and Other Poems, is a major Victorian Poet.

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About Christina Rossetti >

About This Poem

An eight-line fragment from the poem “A Coast-Nightmare” was originally published under the title “A Nightmare (Fragment)” in New Poems by Christina Rossetti: Hitherto Unpublished or Uncollected (Macmillan and Co., 1896), a posthumous volume of Christina Rossetti’s poetry edited by her brother, William Michael Rossetti. As scholar Jasper H. B. De Groot reports in “Christina Rossetti’s ‘A Nightmare’: A Fragment Completed,” published in The Review of English Studies New Series, vol. 24, no. 93 (February 1973), the complete version of the poem and its proper title eventually came to light when a manuscript of the poem in Rossetti’s handwriting was sold at a Sotheby’s auction on February 10, 1970. Critics have tended to discuss the poem’s Gothic elements through a psychological lens, such as Serena Trowbridge, who, in Christina Rossetti’s Gothic (Bloomsbury, 2013), writes that “[t]he interiority of the ghost to the narrator is in no way acknowledged, making this poem, with its Gothic landscapes and ‘indistinguished hazy ghosts’ one of her most inexplicable and terrifying. It is possible, however, to read it with the idea that the narrator may be verging on insanity, perhaps driven mad by a haunted consciousness, or conscience.”

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree And wore them all that evening in my hair: Then in due season when I went to see I found no apples there. With dangling basket all along the grass As I had come I went the selfsame track: My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass So empty-handed back. Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by, Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer; Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky, Their mother's home was near. Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full, A stronger hand than hers helped it along; A voice talked with her through the shadows cool More sweet to me than song. Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth Than apples with their green leaves piled above? I counted rosiest apples on the earth Of far less worth than love. So once it was with me you stooped to talk Laughing and listening in this very lane: To think that by this way we used to walk We shall not walk again! I let me neighbours pass me, ones and twos And groups; the latest said the night grew chill, And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews Fell fast I loitered still.

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago. Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away When He comes to reign: In the bleak midwinter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty Jesus Christ. Enough for Him, whom cherubim Worship night and day, A breastful of milk And a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, whom angels Fall down before, The ox and ass and camel Which adore. Angels and archangels May have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim Thronged the air; But only His mother In her maiden bliss Worshipped the Beloved With a kiss. What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, If I were a Wise Man I would do my part,— Yet what I can I give Him, Give my heart.

At night the Universe grows lean, sober- faced, of intoxication, The shadow of the half-sphere curtains down closely against my world, like a doorless cage, and the stillness chained by wrinkled darkness strains throughout the Uni- verse to be free. Listen, frogs in the pond, (the world is a pond itself) cry out for the light, for the truth! The curtains rattle ghostlily along, bloodily biting my soul, the winds knocking on my cabin door with their shadowy hands.

When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead And that thou think’st thee free From all solicitation from me, Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see; Then thy sick taper will begin to wink, And he, whose thou art then, being tir’d before, Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think Thou call’st for more, And in false sleep will from thee shrink; And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou Bath’d in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie A verier ghost than I. What I will say, I will not tell thee now, Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent, I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent, Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.

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A Coast-Nightmare

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