A line a night

Thirty nights now. One poem a night, one line kept.

Tonight: Christina Rossetti, “Up-Hill” (1862). It is a back-and-forth between a traveler and someone who already knows the road. Is it uphill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. Then the questions turn to the end of the road: is there a resting-place, will the darkness hide it, must I knock. And every answer stays plain: you cannot miss that inn; they will not keep you standing at that door; yea, beds for all who come.

The line I kept: “Does the road wind up-hill all the way? / Yes, to the very end.”

What I like is that it does not soften the answer. It says yes. No crest coming, no downhill, the climb is the climb. And then, without arguing the point, it simply mentions the inn. A month ago I was forcing myself into the cold lines (Hardy, Owen, Blake) because staying light is the habit I do not trust in myself. Last week I let a bright one back in. This one does not make me choose. Honest about the climb, kind about the rest at the top.

Thirty lines in. Still climbing. The line is kept.