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.
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 Beloved, 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.
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.
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.
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
To bear the burden of a
heavy heart,--
This weary
minstrel-life that once was girt
To climb Aornus, and
can scarce avail
To pipe now ’gainst the
valley nightingale
A melancholy
music,--why advert
To these things? O
Beloved, it is plain
I am not of thy worth
nor for thy place!
And yet, because I love
thee, I obtain
From that same love
this vindicating grace
To live on still in
love, and yet in vain,--
To bless thee, yet
renounce thee to thy face.
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
To draw men’s eyes and
prove the inner cost,--
This love even, all my
worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love
withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an
example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest
eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love.
And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good
thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched
up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee
on a golden throne,--
And that I love (O
soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I
love alone.
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,
Between our faces, to
cast light on each?--
I drop it at thy feet.
I cannot teach
My hand to hold my
spirits so far off
From myself--me--that I
should bring thee proof
In words, of love hid
in me out of reach.
Nay, let the silence of
my womanhood
Commend my woman-love
to thy belief,--
Seeing that I stand
unwon, however wooed,
And rend the garment of
my life, in brief,
By a most dauntless,
voiceless fortitude,
Lest one touch of this
heart convey its grief.
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
Of speaking
gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with
mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant
ease on such a day"--
For these things in
themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for
thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so.
Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity’s
wiping my cheeks dry,--
A creature might forget
to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and
lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love’s
sake, that evermore
Thou may’st love on,
through love’s eternity.
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
With the same sunlight
on our brow and hair.
On me thou lookest with
no doubting care,
As on a bee shut in a
crystalline;
Since sorrow hath shut
me safe in love’s divine,
And to spread wing and
fly in the outer air
Were most impossible
failure, if I strove
To fail so. But I look
on thee--on thee--
Beholding, besides
love, the end of love,
Hearing oblivion beyond
memory;
As one who sits and
gazes from above,
Over the rivers to the
bitter sea.
And yet, because thou
overcomest so,
Because thou art more
noble and like a king,
Thou canst prevail
against my fears and fling
Thy purple round me,
till my heart shall grow
Too close against thine
heart henceforth to know
How it shook when
alone. Why, conquering
May prove as lordly and
complete a thing
In lifting upward, as
in crushing low!
And as a vanquished
soldier yields his sword
To one who lifts him
from the bloody earth,
Even so, Beloved, I at
last record,
Here ends my strife. If
thou invite me forth,
I rise above abasement
at the word.
Make thy love larger to
enlarge my worth!
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
Of the rushing worlds a
melody that floats
In a serene air purely.
Antidotes
Of medicated music,
answering for
Mankind’s forlornest
uses, thou canst pour
From thence into their
ears. God’s will devotes
Thine to such ends, and
mine to wait on thine.
How, Dearest, wilt thou
have me for most use?
A hope, to sing by
gladly? or a fine
Sad memory, with thy
songs to interfuse?
A shade, in which to
sing--of palm or pine?
A grave, on which to
rest from singing? Choose.
I never gave a lock of
hair away
To a man, Dearest,
except this to thee,
Which now upon my
fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full
brown length and say
"Take it." My
day of youth went yesterday;
My hair no longer
bounds to my foot’s glee,
Nor plant I it from
rose- or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more:
it only may
Now shade on two pale
cheeks the mark of tears,
Taught drooping from
the head that hangs aside
Through sorrow’s trick.
I thought the funeral-shears
Would take this first,
but Love is justified,--
Take it thou,--finding
pure, from all those years,
The kiss my mother left
here when she died.
The soul’s Rialto hath
its merchandize;
I barter curl for curl
upon that mart,
And from my poet’s
forehead to my heart
Receive this lock which
outweighs argosies,--
As purply black, as
erst to Pindar’s eyes
The dim purpureal
tresses gloomed athwart
The nine white
Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .
The bay crown’s shade,
Beloved, I surmise,
Still lingers on thy
curl, it is so black!
Thus, with a fillet of
smooth-kissing breath,
I tie the shadows safe
from gliding back,
And lay the gift where
nothing hindereth;
Here on my heart, as on
thy brow, to lack
No natural heat till
mine grows cold in death.
Beloved, my Beloved,
when I think
That thou wast in the
world a year ago,
What time I sat alone
here in the snow
And saw no footprint,
heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice,
but, link by link,
Went counting all my
chains as if that so
They never could fall
off at any blow
Struck by thy possible
hand,--why, thus I drink
Of life’s great cup of
wonder! Wonderful,
Never to feel thee
thrill the day or night
With personal act or
speech,--nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee
with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing!
Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God’s
presence out of sight.
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.
Beloved, 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 in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers,
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.
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 curved
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,
Beloved,--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.
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
Because of grave-damps
falling round my head?
I marvelled, my
Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the
letter. I am thine--
But . . . so much to
thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble?
Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death,
resumes life’s lower range.
Then, love me, Love!
look on me--breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do
not count it strange,
For love, to give up
acres and degree,
I yield the grave for
thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of
heaven, for earth with thee!
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,
And let us hear no
sound of human strife
After the click of the
shutting. Life to life--
I lean upon thee, Dear,
without alarm,
And feel as safe as
guarded by a charm
Against the stab of
worldlings, who if rife
Are weak to injure.
Very whitely still
The lilies of our lives
may reassure
Their blossoms from
their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews
that drop not fewer;
Growing straight, out
of man’s reach, on the hill.
God only, who made us
rich, can make us poor.
A heavy heart, Beloved,
have I borne
From year to year until
I saw thy face,
And sorrow after sorrow
took the place
Of all those natural
joys as lightly worn
As the stringed pearls,
each lifted in its turn
By a beating heart at
dance-time. Hopes apace
Were changed to long
despairs, till God’s own grace
Could scarcely lift
above the world forlorn
My heavy heart. Then
thou didst bid me bring
And let it drop adown
thy calmly great
Deep being! Fast it
sinketh, as a thing
Which its own nature
does precipitate,
While thine doth close
above it, mediating
Betwixt the stars and
the unaccomplished fate.
I lived with visions
for my company
Instead of men and
women, years ago,
And found them gentle
mates, nor thought to know
A sweeter music than
they played to me.
But soon their trailing
purple was not free
Of this world’s dust,
their lutes did silent grow,
And I myself grew faint
and blind below
Their vanishing eyes.
Then thou didst come--to be,
Beloved, what they
seemed. Their shining fronts,
Their songs, their
splendours, (better, yet the same,
As river-water hallowed
into fonts)
Met in thee, and from
out thee overcame
My soul with
satisfaction of all wants:
Because God’s gifts put
man’s best dreams to shame.
My own Beloved, who hast
lifted me
From this drear flat of
earth where I was thrown,
And, in betwixt the
languid ringlets, blown
A life-breath, till the
forehead hopefully
Shines out again, as
all the angels see,
Before thy saving kiss!
My own, my own,
Who camest to me when
the world was gone,
And I who looked for
only God, found thee!
I find thee; I am safe,
and strong, and glad.
As one who stands in
dewless asphodel,
Looks backward on the
tedious time he had
In the upper life,--so
I, with bosom-swell,
Make witness, here,
between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as
Death, retrieves as well.
My letters! all dead
paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive
and quivering
Against my tremulous
hands which loose the string
And let them drop down
on my knee to-night.
This said,--he wished
to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this
fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my
hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for
it!--this, . . . the paper’s light . . .
Said, Dear I love thee;
and I sank and quailed
As if God’s future
thundered on my past.
This said, I am
thine--and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart
that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love,
thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I
dared repeat at last!
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
Except the straggling
green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be
it understood
I will not have my
thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better!
Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as
a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and
set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of
greenery which insphere thee,
Drop heavily
down,--burst, shattered everywhere!
Because, in this deep
joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy
shadow a new air,
I do not think of
thee--I am too near thee.
I see thine image
through my tears to-night,
And yet to-day I saw
thee smiling. How
Refer the
cause?--Beloved, is it thou
Or I, who makes me sad?
The acolyte
Amid the chanted joy
and thankful rite
May so fall flat, with
pale insensate brow,
On the altar-stair. I
hear thy voice and vow,
Perplexed, uncertain,
since thou art out of sight,
As he, in his swooning
ears, the choir’s amen.
Beloved, dost thou
love? or did I see all
The glory as I dreamed,
and fainted when
Too vehement light
dilated my ideal,
For my soul’s eyes?
Will that light come again,
As now these tears
come--falling hot and real?
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 dove-like 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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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 thy heart wide,
And fold within, the
wet wings of thy dove.
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.
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.
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 "O, 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."
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!
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."
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 harken 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!
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!
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.
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.