Sonnets from the Portuguese

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  


Sonnets from the Portuguese is Ms. Browning's most widely recognized collection of works. The sonnets are indexed by their first lines below.
Sonnets from the PortuguesePhoebe Anna Traquair, illustration for Sonnet XXX, 1892

  I I thought once how Theocritus had sungII But only three in all God's universeIII Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!IV Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floorV I lift my heavy heart up solemnlyVI Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall standVII The face of all the world is changed, I thinkVIII What can I give thee back, O liberalIX Can it be right to give what I can give?X Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeedXI And therefore if to love can be desertXII Indeed this very love which is my boastXIII And wilt thou have me fashion into speechXIV If thou must love me, let it be for noughtXV Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wearXVI And yet, because thou overcomest soXVII My poet thou canst touch on all the notesXVIII I never gave a lock of hair awayXIX The soul's Rialto hath its merchandizeXX Beloved, my beloved, when I thinkXXI Say over again, and yet once over againXXII When our two souls stand up erect and strongXXIII Is it indeed so? If I lay here deadXXIV Let the world's sharpness like a clasping knifeXXV A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borneXXVI I lived with visions for my companyXXVII My own Beloved, who hast lifted meXXVIII My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!XXIX I think of thee!--my thoughts do twine and budXXX I see thine image through my tears to-nightXXXI Thou comest! all is said without a wordXXXII The first time that the sun rose on thine oathXXXIII Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hearXXXIV With the same heart, I said, I'll answer theeXXXV If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchangeXXXVI When we met first and loved, I did not buildXXXVII Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should makeXXXVIII First time he kissed me, he but only kissedXXXIX Because thou hast the power and own'st the graceXL Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!XLI I thank all who have loved me in their heartsXLII My future will not copy fair my pastXLIII How do I love thee? Let me count the waysXLIV Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowersSonnets from the Portuguese, Adelaide Hanscom, Sonnet III


II thought once how Theocritus had sung

  Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

  Who each one in a gracious hand appears

  To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

  And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

  I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

  The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

  Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

  A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

  So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

  Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

  And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--

  "Guess now who holds thee!"--"Death," I said, But, there,

  The silver answer rang, "Not Death, but Love."

  IIBut only three in all God's universe

  Have heard this word thou hast said,--Himself, beside

  Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied

  One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse

  So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce

  My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died,

  The death-weights, placed there, would have signified

  Less absolute exclusion. "Nay" is worse

  From God than from all others, O my friend!

  Men could not part us with their worldly jars,

  Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;

  Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:

  And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,

  We should but vow the faster for the stars.

  IIIUnlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!

  Unlike our uses and our destinies.

  Our ministering two angels look surprise

  On one another, as they strike athwart

  Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

  A guest for queens to social pageantries,

  With gages from a hundred brighter eyes

  Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part

  Of chief musician. What hast thou to do

  With looking from the lattice-lights at me,

  A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

  The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?

  The chrism is on thine head,--on mine, the dew,--

  And Death must dig the level where these agree.

  IVThou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,

  Most gracious singer of high poems! where

  The dancers will break footing, from the care

  Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

  And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor

  For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear

  To let thy music drop here unaware

  In folds of golden fulness at my door?

  Look up and see the casement broken in,

  The bats and owlets builders in the roof!

  My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

  Hush, call no echo up in further proof

  Of desolation! there's a voice within

  That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.

  VI lift my heavy heart up solemnly,

  As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

  And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn

  The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see

  What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

  And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

  Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn

  Could tread them out to darkness utterly,

  It might be well perhaps. But if instead

  Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow

  The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head,

  O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,

  That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred

  The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!

  VIGo from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

  Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore

  Alone upon the threshold of my door

  Of individual life, I shall command

  The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

  Serenely in the sunshine as before,

  Without the sense of that which I forbore--

  Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

  Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

  With pulses that beat double. What I do

  And what I dream include thee, as the wine

  Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

  God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

  And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

  VIIThe face of all the world is changed, I think,

  Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul

  Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole

  Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink

  Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,

  Was caught up into love, and taught the whole

  Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole

  God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,

  And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.

  The names of country, heaven, are changed away

  For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;

  And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday,

  (The singing angels know) are only dear

  Because thy name moves right in what they say.

  VIIIWhat can I give thee back, O liberal

  And princely giver, who hast brought the gold

  And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,

  And laid them on the outside of the wall

  For such as I to take or leave withal,

  In unexpected largesse? am I cold,

  Ungrateful, that for these most manifold

  High gifts, I render nothing back at all?

  Not so; not cold,--but very poor instead.

  Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run

  The colours from my life, and left so dead

  And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done

  To give the same as pillow to thy head.

  Go farther! let it serve to trample on.

  IXCan it be right to give what I can give?

  To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears

  As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years

  Re-sighing on my lips renunciative

  Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live

  For all thy adjurations? O my fears,

  That this can scarce be right! We are not peers

  So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,

  That givers of such gifts as mine are, must

  Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!

  I will not soil thy purple with my dust,

  Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,

  Nor give thee any love--which were unjust.

  Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.

  XYet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed

  And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,

  Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light

  Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:

  And love is fire. And when I say at need

  I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee--in thy sight

  I stand transfigured, glorified aright,

  With conscience of the new rays that proceed

  Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low

  In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures

  Who love God, God accepts while loving so.

  And what I feel, across the inferior features

  Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show

  How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.

  XIAnd therefore if to love can be desert,

  I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale

  As these you see, and trembling knees that fail

  To bear the burden of a heavy heart,--

  This weary minstrel-life that once was girt

  To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail

  To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale

  A melancholy music,--why advert

  To these things? O Beloved, it is plain

  I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!

  And yet, because I love thee, I obtain

  From that same love this vindicating grace

  To live on still in love, and yet in vain,--

  To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.

  XIIIndeed this very love which is my boast,

  And which, when rising up from breast to brow,

  Doth crown me with a ruby large enow

  To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,--

  This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,

  I should not love withal, unless that thou

  Hadst set me an example, shown me how,

  When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,

  And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak

  Of love even, as a good thing of my own:

  Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,

  And placed it by thee on a golden throne,--

  And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)

  Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

  XIIIAnd wilt thou have me fashion into speech

  The love I bear thee, finding words enough,

  And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,

  Between our faces, to cast light on each?--

  I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach

  My hand to hold my spirits so far off

  From myself--me--that I should bring thee proof

  In words, of love hid in me out of reach.

  Nay, let the silence of my womanhood

  Commend my woman-love to thy belief,--

  Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,

  And rend the garment of my life, in brief,

  By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,

  Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.

  XIVIf thou must love me, let it be for nought

  Except for love's sake only. Do not say

  "I love her for her smile--her look--her way

  Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought

  That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

  A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"--

  For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

  Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,

  May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

  Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--

  A creature might forget to weep, who bore

  Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

  But love me for love's sake, that evermore

  Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.

  XVAccuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear

  Too calm and sad a face in front of thine;

  For we two look two ways, and cannot shine

  With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.

  On me thou lookest with no doubting care,

  As on a bee shut in a crystalline;

  Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love's divine,

  And to spread wing and fly in the outer air

  Were most impossible failure, if I strove

  To fail so. But I look on thee--on thee--

  Beholding, besides love, the end of love,

  Hearing oblivion beyond memory;

  As one who sits and gazes from above,

  Over the rivers to the bitter sea.

  XVIAnd yet, because thou overcomest so,

  Because thou art more noble and like a king,

  Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling

  Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow

  Too close against thine heart henceforth to know

  How it shook when alone. Why, conquering

  May prove as lordly and complete a thing

  In lifting upward, as in crushing low!

  And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword

  To one who lifts him from the bloody earth,

  Even so, Beloved, I at last record,

  Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,

  I rise above abasement at the word.

  Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth!

  XVIIMy poet, thou canst touch on all the notes

  God set between His After and Before,

  And strike up and strike off the general roar

  Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats

  In a serene air purely. Antidotes

  Of medicated music, answering for

  Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour

  From thence into their ears. God's will devotes

  Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.

  How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?

  A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine

  Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?

  A shade, in which to sing--of palm or pine?

  A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.

  XVIIII never gave a lock of hair away

  To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,

  Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully

  I ring out to the full brown length and say

  "Take it." My day of youth went yesterday;

  My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee,

  Nor plant I it from rose- or myrtle-tree,

  As girls do, any more: it only may

  Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,

  Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside

  Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears

  Would take this first, but Love is justified,--

  Take it thou,--finding pure, from all those years,

  The kiss my mother left here when she died.

  XIXThe soul's Rialto hath its merchandize;

  I barter curl for curl upon that mart,

  And from my poet's forehead to my heart

  Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,--

  As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes

  The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart

  The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .

  The bay crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise,

  Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!

  Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,

  I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,

  And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;

  Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack

  No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.

  XXBeloved, my Beloved, when I think

  That thou wast in the world a year ago,

  What time I sat alone here in the snow

  And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink

  No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,

  Went counting all my chains as if that so

  They never could fall off at any blow

  Struck by thy possible hand,--why, thus I drink

  Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful,

  Never to feel thee thrill the day or night

  With personal act or speech,--nor ever cull

  Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white

  Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,

  Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.

  XXISay over again, and yet once over again,

  That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated

  Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,

  Remember, never to the hill or plain,

  Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain

  Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.

  Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted

  By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain

  Cry, "Speak once more--thou lovest!" Who can fear

  Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,

  Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?

  Say thou dost love me, love me, love me--toll

  The silver iterance!--only minding, Dear,

  To love me also in silence with thy soul.

  XXIIWhen our two souls stand up erect and strong,

  Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,

  Until the lengthening wings break into fire

  At either curved point,--what bitter wrong

  Can the earth do to us, that we should not long

  Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,

  The angels would press on us and aspire

  To drop some golden orb of perfect song

  Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay

  Rather on earth, Beloved,--where the unfit

  Contrarious moods of men recoil away

  And isolate pure spirits, and permit

  A place to stand and love in for a day,

  With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

  XXIIIIs it indeed so? If I lay here dead,

  Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?

  And would the sun for thee more coldly shine

  Because of grave-damps falling round my head?

  I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read

  Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine--

  But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine

  While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead

  Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.

  Then, love me, Love! look on me--breathe on me!

  As brighter ladies do not count it strange,

  For love, to give up acres and degree,

  I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange

  My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!

  XXIVLet the world's sharpness like a clasping knife

  Shut in upon itself and do no harm

  In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,

  And let us hear no sound of human strife

  After the click of the shutting. Life to life--

  I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,

  And feel as safe as guarded by a charm

  Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife

  Are weak to injure. Very whitely still

  The lilies of our lives may reassure

  Their blossoms from their roots, accessible

  Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;

  Growing straight, out of man's reach, on the hill.

  God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

  XXVA heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne

  From year to year until I saw thy face,

  And sorrow after sorrow took the place

  Of all those natural joys as lightly worn

  As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn

  By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace

  Were changed to long despairs, till God's own grace

  Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn

  My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring

  And let it drop adown thy calmly great

  Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing

  Which its own nature does precipitate,

  While thine doth close above it, mediating

  Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate.

  XXVII lived with visions for my company

  Instead of men and women, years ago,

  And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know

  A sweeter music than they played to me.

  But soon their trailing purple was not free

  Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow,

  And I myself grew faint and blind below

  Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst come--to be,

  Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,

  Their songs, their splendours, (better, yet the same,

  As river-water hallowed into fonts)

  Met in thee, and from out thee overcame

  My soul with satisfaction of all wants:

  Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

  XXVIIMy own Beloved, who hast lifted me

  From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,

  And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown

  A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully

  Shines out again, as all the angels see,

  Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,

  Who camest to me when the world was gone,

  And I who looked for only God, found thee!

  I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.

  As one who stands in dewless asphodel,

  Looks backward on the tedious time he had

  In the upper life,--so I, with bosom-swell,

  Make witness, here, between the good and bad,

  That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.

  XXVIIIMy letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

  And yet they seem alive and quivering

  Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

  And let them drop down on my knee to-night.

  This said,--he wished to have me in his sight

  Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring

  To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,

  Yet I wept for it!--this, . . . the paper's light . . .

  Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed

  As if God's future thundered on my past.

  This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled

  With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

  And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed

  If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

  XXIXI think of thee!--my thoughts do twine and bud

  About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,

  Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see

  Except the straggling green which hides the wood.

  Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood

  I will not have my thoughts instead of thee

  Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly

  Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,

  Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,

  And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee,

  Drop heavily down,--burst, shattered everywhere!

  Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee

  And breathe within thy shadow a new air,

  I do not think of thee--I am too near thee.

  XXXI see thine image through my tears to-night,

  And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How

  Refer the cause?--Beloved, is it thou

  Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte

  Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite

  May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,

  On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow,

  Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,

  As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's amen.

  Beloved, dost thou love? or did I see all

  The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when

  Too vehement light dilated my ideal,

  For my soul's eyes? Will that light come again,

  As now these tears come--falling hot and real?

  XXXIThou comest! all is said without a word.

  I sit beneath thy looks, as children do

  In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through

  Their happy eyelids from an unaverred

  Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred

  In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue

  The sin most, but the occasion--that we two

  Should for a moment stand unministered

  By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,

  Thou dove-like help! and when my fears would rise,

  With thy broad heart serenely interpose:

  Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies

  These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,

  Like callow birds left desert to the skies.

  XXXIIThe first time that the sun rose on thine oath

  To love me, I looked forward to the moon

  To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon

  And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.

  Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;

  And, looking on myself, I seemed not one

  For such man's love!--more like an out-of-tune

  Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth

  To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,

  Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.

  I did not wrong myself so, but I placed

  A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float

  'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,--

  And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

  XXXIIIYes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear

  The name I used to run at, when a child,

  From innocent play, and leave the cowslips plied,

  To glance up in some face that proved me dear

  With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear

  Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled

  Into the music of Heaven's undefiled,

  Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,

  While I call God--call God!--so let thy mouth

  Be heir to those who are now exanimate.

  Gather the north flowers to complete the south,

  And catch the early love up in the late.

  Yes, call me by that name,--and I, in truth,

  With the same heart, will answer and not wait.

  XXXIVWith the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee

  As those, when thou shalt call me by my name--

  Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same,

  Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy?

  When called before, I told how hastily

  I dropped my flowers or brake off from a game.

  To run and answer with the smile that came

  At play last moment, and went on with me

  Through my obedience. When I answer now,

  I drop a grave thought, break from solitude;

  Yet still my heart goes to thee--ponder how--

  Not as to a single good, but all my good!

  Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow

  That no child's foot could run fast as this blood.

  XXXVIf I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

  And be all to me? Shall I never miss

  Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss

  That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,

  When I look up, to drop on a new range

  Of walls and floors, another home than this?

  Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is

  Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change

  That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,

  To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,

  For grief indeed is love and grief beside.

  Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.

  Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thy heart wide,

  And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

  XXXVIWhen we met first and loved, I did not build

  Upon the event with marble. Could it mean

  To last, a love set pendulous between

  Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled,

  Distrusting every light that seemed to gild

  The onward path, and feared to overlean

  A finger even. And, though I have grown serene

  And strong since then, I think that God has willed

  A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . .

  Lest these enclasped hands should never hold,

  This mutual kiss drop down between us both

  As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold.

  And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath,

  Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold.

  XXXVIIPardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make

  Of all that strong divineness which I know

  For thine and thee, an image only so

  Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.

  It is that distant years which did not take

  Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,

  Have forced my swimming brain to undergo

  Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake

  Thy purity of likeness and distort

  Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit.

  As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,

  His guardian sea-god to commemorate,

  Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort

  And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.

  XXXVIIIFirst time he kissed me, he but only kissed

  The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;

  And ever since, it grew more clean and white.

  Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "O, list,"

  When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst

  I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,

  Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

  The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,

  Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!

  That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,

  With sanctifying sweetness, did precede

  The third upon my lips was folded down

  In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,

  I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."

  XXXIXBecause thou hast the power and own'st the grace

  To look through and behind this mask of me,

  (Against which, years have beat thus blanchingly,

  With their rains,) and behold my soul's true face,

  The dim and weary witness of life's race,--

  Because thou hast the faith and love to see,

  Through that same soul's distracting lethargy,

  The patient angel waiting for a place

  In the new Heavens,--because nor sin nor woe,

  Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood,

  Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,

  Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,--

  Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so

  To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

  XLOh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!

  I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth:

  I have heard love talked in my early youth,

  And since, not so long back but that the flowers

  Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours

  Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth

  For any weeping. Polypheme's white tooth

  Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,

  The shell is over-smooth,--and not so much

  Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate

  Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such

  A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait

  Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,

  And think it soon when others cry "Too late."

  XLII thank all who have loved me in their hearts,

  With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all

  Who paused a little near the prison-wall

  To hear my music in its louder parts

  Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's

  Or temple's occupation, beyond call.

  But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall

  When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's

  Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

  To harken what I said between my tears, . . .

  Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot

  My soul's full meaning into future years,

  That they should lend it utterance, and salute

  Love that endures, from life that disappears!

  XLIIMy future will not copy fair my past--

  I wrote that once; and thinking at my side

  My ministering life-angel justified

  The word by his appealing look upcast

  To the white throne of God, I turned at last,

  And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied

  To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried

  By natural ills, received the comfort fast,

  While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff

  Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.

  I seek no copy now of life's first half:

  Leave here the pages with long musing curled,

  And write me new my future's epigraph,

  New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

  XLIIIHow do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

  I love thee to the level of everyday's

  Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

  I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

  I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

  I love thee with the passion put to use

  In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

  I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

  With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,

  Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,

  I shall but love thee better after death.

  XLIVBeloved, thou hast brought me many flowers

  Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,

  And winter, and it seemed as if they grew

  In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.

  So, in the like name of that love of ours,

  Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,

  And which on warm and cold days I withdrew

  From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers

  Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,

  And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,

  Here's ivy!--take them, as I used to do

  Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.

  Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,

  And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.


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