So XXI
Say ain, a once ain,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem a cuckoo-song, as thou dost treat it,
Remember, o the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
es the fresh Spring in all her green pleted.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubts pain
Cry, Speak once more--thou lovest ! Who fear
Too many stars, though ea heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall the year ?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me--toll
The silver iterance !--only minding, Dear,
To love me also in sileh thy soul.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
So XXI: Say ain
Say ain, a once ain,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem "a cuckoo-song,"as thou dost treat it,
Remember, o the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
es the fresh Spring in all her green pleted.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubts pain
Cry, Speak once more--thou lovest! Who fear
Too many stars, though ea heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me--toll
The silver iterance!--only minding, Dear,
To love me also in sileh thy soul.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
So XXII
When our two souls stand up ered strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curved point,--what bitter wrong
the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here tented ? 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 oh, Beloved,--where the unfit
trarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, a
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
So XXII: When Our Two Souls Stand Up
When our two souls stand up ered strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curvèd point,--what bitter wrong
the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here tehink. 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 oh, Belovèd,--where the unfit
trarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, a
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
So 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 iter. I am thine--
But . . . so much to thee ? I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes lifes lower range.
Then, love me, Love ! look on me--breathe on me !
As brighter ladies do not t it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for