Sonnets from the Portuguese | Page 9

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!
XLII
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!
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.
End of Project Gutenberg Etext Sonnets from the Portuguese, by
Browning
from http://www.dertz.in/