Sonnets From the Portuguese

Part 1

Transcribed from the 1906 Caradoc Press edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

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BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

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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 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.”

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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