I Will not let you say a woman’s part Must be to give exclusive love alone; Dearest, although I love you so, my heart Answers a thousand claims besides your own. I love,—what do I not love? Earth and air Find space within my heart, and myriad things You would not deign to heed are cherished there, And vibrate on its very inmost strings. I love the summer, with her ebb and flow Of light and warmth and music, that have nursed Her tender buds to blossoms … and you know It was in the summer that I saw you first. I love the winter dearly too,… but then I owe it so much; on a winter’s day, Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again When you had been those weary months away. I love the stars like friends; so many nights I gazed at them, when you were far from me, Till I grew blind with tears … those far-off lights Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see. I love the flowers; happy hours lie Shut up within their petals close and fast: You have forgotten, dear; but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden Past. I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise Seems like a crown upon my life,—to make It better worth the giving, and to raise Still nearer to your own the heart you take. I love all good and noble souls;—I heard One speak of you but lately, and for days, Only to think of it, my soul was stirred In tender memory of such generous praise. I love all those who love you, all who owe Comfort to you; and I can find regret Even for those poorer hearts who once could know, And once could love you, and can now forget. Well, is my heart so narrow,—I, who spare Love for all these? Do I not even hold My favorite books in special tender care, And prize them as a miser does his gold? The poets that you used to read to me While summer twilights faded in the sky; But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, Because—because—do you remember why? Will you be jealous? Did you guess before I loved so many things?—Still you the best:— Dearest, remember that I love you more, O, more a thousand times, than all the rest!
A Woman’s Answer
More from Poet
-
Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys. I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then, But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen. It flooded the crimson twilight, Like the close of...
-
I Do not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load; I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet. For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord...
-
Judge not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, In God’s pure light may only be A scar, brought from some well-won field, Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. The look, the air, that frets thy sight May be a token that below...
-
With echoing steps the worshippers Departed one by one; The organ’s pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done; The shadow fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air, One lamp alone, with trembling ray, Told of the Presence there! In the dark church she knelt alone; Her...
-
Where are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. O doubting heart! Far over purple seas They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more. Why must the flowers die...