Rossetti’s Harp Player

The harp is made to play laments, and her fingers pluck its strings mournfully in mellifluous torment. Notes spill like dawn birdsong from the instrument she clings, as if it were the first song the harp had learnt to sing. Her velvet gown is black as night, the harp of ebony made, but light shimmers […]

Beauty Beyond the Grave

The shadow of laudanum no longer stained her skin, in life and death her beauty spilled luminous, and green-blue eyes belied disease that once coiled within. Her glorious red hair had grown beyond eternal sleep, entangled in it, Rossetti’s book of poetry, penetrated by a single worm where damp and mould had seeped. Seven long […]