Sonnets from the Portuguese | Page 6

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.
XVIII
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.
XIX
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 counters part, . . .
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.

XX
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.
XXI
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me,

Though the word repeated
Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as 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.
XXII
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.
XXIII
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!
XXIV
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.
XXV
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