Sonnets from the Portuguese | Page 7

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.
XXVI
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.
XXVII
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, acid 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.
XXVIII
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!
XXIX
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,
XXX
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?

XXXI
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.
XXXII
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.
XXXIII
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