Sonnets from the Portuguese | Page 9

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!
XLIII
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.
XLIV
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.
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