Browning, Elizabeth Barrett



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;

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