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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Sonnets from the Portuguese, by Elizabeth
+Barrett Browning
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions 
+whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
+the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at 
+www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
+to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
+
+
+
+
+Title: Sonnets from the Portuguese
+
+
+Author: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
+
+
+
+Release Date: January 13, 2015  [eBook #2002]
+[This file was first posted on April 20, 1999]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE***
+
+
+Transcribed from the 1906 Caradoc Press edition by David Price, email
+ccx074@pglaf.org
+
+                          [Picture: Book cover]
+
+
+
+
+
+                             SONNETS FROM THE
+                                PORTUGUESE
+
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                    BY
+                                ELIZABETH
+                             BARRETT BROWNING
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]
+
+                      THE CARADOC PRESS BEDFORD PARK
+                   CHISWICK LONDON             MDCCCCVI
+
+
+
+
+INDEX OF FIRST LINES
+
+          I  I thought once how Theocritus had sung
+         II  But only three in all God’s universe
+        III  Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
+         IV  Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor
+          V  I lift my heavy heart up solemnly
+         VI  Go from me.  Yet I feel that I shall stand
+        VII  The face of all the world is changed, I think
+       VIII  What can I give thee back, O liberal
+         IX  Can it be right to give what I can give?
+          X  Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
+         XI  And therefore if to love can be desert
+        XII  Indeed this very love which is my boast
+       XIII  And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
+        XIV  If thou must love me, let it be for nought
+         XV  Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
+        XVI  And yet, because thou overcomest so
+       XVII  My poet thou canst touch on all the notes
+      XVIII  I never gave a lock of hair away
+        XIX  The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandize
+         XX  Beloved, my beloved, when I think
+        XXI  Say over again, and yet once over again
+       XXII  When our two souls stand up erect and strong
+      XXIII  Is it indeed so?  If I lay here dead
+       XXIV  Let the world’s sharpness like a clasping knife
+        XXV  A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
+       XXVI  I lived with visions for my company
+      XXVII  My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
+     XXVIII  My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
+       XXIX  I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud
+        XXX  I see thine image through my tears to-night
+       XXXI  Thou comest! all is said without a word
+      XXXII  The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
+     XXXIII  Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear
+      XXXIV  With the same heart, I said, I’ll answer thee
+       XXXV  If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
+      XXXVI  When we met first and loved, I did not build
+     XXXVII  Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make
+    XXXVIII  First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
+      XXXIX  Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace
+         XL  Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!
+        XLI  I thank all who have loved me in their hearts
+       XLII  My future will not copy fair my past
+      XLIII  How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways
+       XLIV  Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+   I 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.”
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+   But 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.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+
+   Unlike 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.
+
+
+
+
+IV
+
+
+   Thou 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.
+
+
+
+
+V
+
+
+   I 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 Belovëd, will not shield thee so,
+   That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
+   The hair beneath.  Stand further off then! go!
+
+
+
+
+VI
+
+
+   Go 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.
+
+
+
+
+VII
+
+
+   The 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.
+
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+   What 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.
+
+
+
+
+IX
+
+
+   Can 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.
+
+
+
+
+X
+
+
+   Yet, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XI
+
+
+   And 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 Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XII
+
+
+   Indeed 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.
+
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+
+   And 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.
+
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+
+   If 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, Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XV
+
+
+   Accuse 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.
+
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+
+   And 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, Belovëd, 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!
+
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+
+   My 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.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+
+   I 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.
+
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+
+   The 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, Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XX
+
+
+   Belovëd, my Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+
+   Say 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.
+   Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+
+   When 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 curvëd 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, Belovëd,—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.
+
+
+
+
+XXIII
+
+
+   Is 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 Belovëd, 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!
+
+
+
+
+XXIV
+
+
+   Let 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXV
+
+
+   A heavy heart, Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXVI
+
+
+   I 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,
+   Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXVII
+
+
+   My own Belovëd, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXVIII
+
+
+   My 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!
+
+
+
+
+XXIX
+
+
+   I 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXX
+
+
+   I see thine image through my tears to-night,
+   And yet to-day I saw thee smiling.  How
+   Refer the cause?—Belovëd, 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.
+   Belovëd, 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?
+
+
+
+
+XXXI
+
+
+   Thou 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXXII
+
+
+   The 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXXIII
+
+
+   Yes, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXXIV
+
+
+   With 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXXV
+
+
+   If 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXXVI
+
+
+   When 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 enclaspëd 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXXVII
+
+
+   Pardon, 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.
+
+
+
+
+XXXVIII
+
+
+   First 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.”
+
+
+
+
+XXXIX
+
+
+   Because 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!
+
+
+
+
+XL
+
+
+   Oh, 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 Belovëd! thou canst wait
+   Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,
+   And think it soon when others cry “Too late.”
+
+
+
+
+XLI
+
+
+   I 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!
+
+
+
+
+XLII
+
+
+   My 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!
+
+
+
+
+XLIII
+
+
+   How 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.
+
+
+
+
+XLIV
+
+
+   Belovëd, 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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