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Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Page 71

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


  XXXI.

  Thou comest! all is said without a word

  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 dovelike 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

  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

  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 piled,

  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

  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

  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 thine heart wide,

  And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.

  XXXVI.

  When we met first and loved, I did not build

  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

  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

  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 “Oh, 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

  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!

  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

  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 hearken 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 —

  “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

  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

  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.

  Sonnets

  CONTENTS

  THE SOUL’S EXPRESSION.

  THE SERAPH AND POET.

  ON A PORTRAIT OF WORDSWORTH BY B. R. HAYDON.

  PAST AND FUTURE.

  IRREPARABLENESS.

  TEARS.

  GRIEF.

  SUBSTITUTION.

  COMFORT.

  PERPLEXED MUSIC.

  WORK.

  FUTURITY.

  THE TWO SAYINGS.

  THE LOOK.

  THE MEANING OF THE LOOK.

  A THOUGHT FOR A LONELY DEATH-BED.

  WORK AND CONTEMPLATION.

  PAIN IN PLEASURE.

  AN APPREHENSION.

  DISCONTENT.

  PATIENCE TAUGHT BY NATURE.

  CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON.

  EXAGGERATION.

  ADEQUACY.

  TO GEORGE SAND.

  TO GEORGE SAND.

  THE PRISONER.

  INSUFFICIENCY.

  TWO SKETCHES.

  MOUNTAINEER AND POET.

  THE POET.

  HIRAM POWERS’ “GREEK SLAVE.”

  LIFE.

  LOVE.

  HEAVEN AND EARTH.

  THE PROSPECT.

  HUGH STUART BOYD.

  HUGH STUART BOYD.

  HUGH STUART BOYD.

  THE SOUL’S EXPRESSION.

  With stammering lips and insufficient sound

  I strive and struggle to deliver right

  That music of my nature, day and night

  With dream and thought and feeling interwound,

  And inly answering all the senses round

  With octaves of a mystic depth and height

  Which step out grandly to the infinite

  From the dark edges of the sensual ground.

  This song of soul I struggle to outbear

  Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,

  And utter all myself into the air:

  But if I did it, — as the thunder-roll

  Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,

  Before that dread apocalypse of soul.

  THE SERAPH AND POET.

  The seraph sings before the manifest

  God-One, and in the burning of the Seven,

  And with the full life of consummate Heaven

  Heaving beneath him like a mother’s breast

  Warm with her first-born’s slumber in that nest.

  The poet sings upon the earth grave-riven,

  Before the naughty world, soon self-forgiven

  For wronging him, — and in the darkness prest

  From his own soul by worldly weights. Even so,

  Sing, seraph with the glory! heaven is high;

  Sing, poet with the sorrow! earth is low:

  The universe’s inward voices cry

  “Amen” to either song of joy and woe:

  Sing, seraph, — poet, — sing on equally!

  ON A PORTRAIT OF WORDSWORTH BY B. R. HAYDON.

  Wordsworth upon Helvellyn! Let the cloud

  Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind

  Then break against the rock, and show behind

  The lowland valleys floating up to crowd

  The sense with beauty. He with forehead bowed

  And humble-lidded eyes, as one inclined

  Before the sovran thought of his own mind,

  And very meek with inspirations proud,

  Takes here his rightful place as poet-priest

  By the high altar, singing prayer and prayer

  To the higher Heavens. A noble vision free

  Our Haydon’s hand has flung out from the mist:

  No portrait this, with Academic air!

  This is t
he poet and his poetry.

  PAST AND FUTURE.

  My future will not copy fair my past

  On any leaf but Heaven’s. Be fully done,

  Supernal Will! I would not fain be one

  Who, satisfying thirst and breaking fast,

  Upon the fulness of the heart at last

  Says no grace after meat. My wine has run

  Indeed out of my cup, and there is none

  To gather up the bread of my repast

  Scattered and trampled; yet I find some good

  In earth’s green herbs, and streams that bubble up

  Clear from the darkling ground, — content until

  I sit with angels before better food:

  Dear Christ! when Thy new vintage fills my cup,

  This hand shall shake no more, nor that wine spill.

  IRREPARABLENESS.

  I have been in the meadows all the day

  And gathered there the nosegay that you see,

  Singing within myself as bird or bee

  When such do field-work on a morn of May.

  But, now I look upon my flowers, decay

  Has met them in my hands more fatally

  Because more warmly clasped, — and sobs are free

  To come instead of songs. What do you say,

  Sweet counsellors, dear friends? that I should go

  Back straightway to the fields and gather more?

  Another, sooth, may do it, but not I!

  My heart is very tired, my strength is low,

  My hands are full of blossoms plucked before,

  Held dead within them till myself shall die.

  TEARS.

  Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not

  More grief than ye can weep for. That is well —

  That is light grieving! lighter, none befell

 

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