Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How he sleepeth! having drunken Weary childhood's mandragore, From his pretty eyes have sunken

Prologue I heard an angel speak last night, And he said "Write!

O Rose! who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,

I Love me Sweet, with all thou art, Feeling, thinking, seeing;

I. What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river ?

We walked beside the sea, After a day which perished silently Of its own glory, like the Princess weird

INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND E. C. If God compel thee to this destiny, To die alone, with none beside thy bed

She has laughed as softly as if she sighed, She has counted six, and over, Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried,

He listened at the porch that day, To hear the wheel go on, and on; And then it stopped, ran back away,

Now, by the verdure on thy thousand hills, Beloved England, doth the earth appear Quite good enough for men to overbear

If all the gentlest-hearted friends I know Concentred in one heart their gentleness, That still grew gentler till its pulse was less

One eve it happened, when I sat alone, Alone, upon the terrace of my tower, A book upon my knees to counterfeit

Aurora Leigh, be humble. Shall I hope To speak my poems in mysterious tune With man and nature? with the lava-lymph

They met still sooner. 'Twas a year from thence That Lucy Gresham, the sick sempstress girl, Who sewed by Marian's chair so still and quick,

Even thus. I pause to write it out at length, The letter of the Lady Waldemar. "I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you this:

Of writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,

"The woman's motive? shall we daub ourselves With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft clay And easily explored. She had the means,

The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light. The levity Is in the judgment only, which yet stands,

"To-day thou girdest up thy loins thyself And goest where thou wouldest: presently Others shall gird thee," said the Lord, "to go

Times followed one another. Came a morn I stood upon the brink of twenty years, And looked before and after, as I stood

The cypress stood up like a church That night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search

Five months ago the stream did flow, The lilies bloomed within the sedge, And we were lingering to and fro,

I think we are too ready with complaint In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope

Hearken, oh hearken! let your souls behind you Turn, gently moved! Our voices feel along the Dread to find you,

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so

All are not taken; there are left behind Living Belov'ds, tender looks to bring And make the daylight still a happy thing,

I The face, which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun,

Light human nature is too lightly tost And ruffled without cause, complaining on Restless with rest, until, being overthrown,

We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination (given us to bring down The choirs of singing angels overshone

God, God! With a child's voice I cry, Weak, sad, confidingly,

And, O beloved voices, upon which Ours passionately call because erelong Ye brake off in the middle of that song

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air

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

We sow the glebe, we reap the corn, We build the house where we may rest, And then, at moments, suddenly,

When I attain to utter forth in verse Some inward thought, my soul throbs audibly Along my pulses, yearning to be free

I have been in the meadows all the day And gathered there the nosegay that you see Singing within myself as bird or bee

I 'But where do you go?' said the lady, while both sat under the yew, And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blue.

For ever, since my childish looks Could rest on Nature's pictured books; For ever, since my childish tongue

I. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea.

I. Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus,

Wordsworth upon Helvellyn! Let the cloud Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind, Then break against the rock, and show behind

I. Friends of faces unknown and a land Unvisited over the sea,

A thought ay like a flower upon mine heart, And drew around it other thoughts like bees For multitude and thirst of sweetnesses;

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

'O dreary life,' we cry, 'O dreary life!' And still the generations of the birds Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO E. J. Experience, like a pale musician, holds A dulcimer of patience in his hand,

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

But only three in all God's universe Have heard this word thou hast said, Himself, beside Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, Most gracious singer of high poems! where The dancers will break footing, from the care

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

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly, As once Electra her sepulchral urn, And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door

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

What can I give thee back, O liberal And princely giver, who hast brought the gold And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright, Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light

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

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

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,

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

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandize; I barter curl for curl upon that mart, And from my poet's forehead to my heart

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,

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

My future will not copy fair my past, I wrote that once; and thinking at my side My ministering life-angel justified

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

Belov'd, thou hast brought me many flowers Plucked in the garden, all the summer through, And winter, and it seemed as if they grew

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

And yet, because thou overcomest so, Because thou art more noble and like a king, Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling

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

I never gave a lock of hair away To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully

Belov'd, my Belov'd, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago, What time I sat alone here in the snow

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,

When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire

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

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,

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

A heavy heart, Belov'd, have I borne From year to year until I saw thy face, And sorrow after sorrow took the place

I lived with visions for my company Instead of men and women, years ago, And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know

My own Belov'd, who hast lifted me From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown, And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

I see thine image through my tears to-night, And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How Refer the cause? Belov'd, is it thou

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

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

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,

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,

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,

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

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

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make Of all that strong divineness which I know For thine and thee, an image only so

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.

When some beloved voice that was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence, against which you dare not cry,

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

Go, sit upon the lofty hill, And turn your eyes around, Where waving woods and waters wild

What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;

"Theu theu, ti prosderkesthe m ommasin, tekna;" [Alas, alas, why do you gaze at me with your eyes, my children.] - Medea.

I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run

I would build a cloudy House For my thoughts to live in; When for earth too fancy-loose

"Yes!" I answered you last night; "No!" this morning, Sir, I say! Colours, seen by candle-light,

The Saviour looked on Peter. Ay, no word, No gesture of reproach; the Heavens serene Though heavy with armed justice, did not lean

I think that look of Christ might seem to say 'Thou Peter! art thou then a common stone Which I at last must break my heart upon

I "Now give us lands where the olives grow," Cried the North to the South,

Said a people to a poet "Go out from among us straightway! While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine. There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateways

I count the dismal time by months and years Since last I felt the green sward under foot, And the great breath of all things summer

IX 'My lips do need thy breath, My lips do need thy smile,

I. I stand on the mark beside the shore Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee,

The seraph sings before the manifest God-One, and in the burning of the Seven, And with the full life of consummate

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right That music of my nature, day and night

Two savings of the Holy Scriptures beat Like pulses in the Church's brow and breast; And by them we find rest in our unrest

Which is the weakest thing of all Mine heart can ponder? The sun, a little cloud can pall

Mine is a wayward lay; And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string, Proveth a truant thing,

Loving friend, the gift of one, Who, her own true faith, hath run, Through thy lower nature;

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man, Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance

True genius, but true woman! dost deny The woman's nature with a manly scorn And break away the gauds and armlets worn

What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil; Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines For all the heat o' the day, till it declines,

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole; She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,