SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
　　
　　
　　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 Beloved, 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 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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, 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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, 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!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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, 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　XX
　　
　　
　　Beloved, 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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.
　　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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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 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!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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, 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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,
　　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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　XXVII
　　
　　
　　My 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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?--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?
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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 Beloved! 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
　　
　　
　　Beloved, 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.