SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
 

21.

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.
Belovèd, 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 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.
 

22. When our Two Souls

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 curvèd 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, Belovèd — 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.
 

43. How do I Love thee?

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.

                                                            (1845-1847)

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