Sonnets from the PortugueseXXXV. If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, When I look up, to drop on a new range Of walls and floors, another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change That ’s hardest? If to conquer love, has tried, To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove, For grief indeed is love and grief beside. Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me—wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.

Collection: 
English
1826
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sub Title: 
VIII. Wedded Love

More from Poet

Mondd újra

Mondd újra s újra mondd és újra mondd,
hogy szeretsz! Bár az ismételt szavak
kakukknótához hasonlítanak,
emlékezz rá, hogy se mező, se domb
nincs kakukknóta nélkül, ha a lomb
újul tavasszal s kizöldül a mag.
Egyszeri szó, mint szellem hangja, vak
...
A Court Lady

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark, Her cheeks’ pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, Larger in judgment...
Parting Lovers

Sienna I Love thee, love thee, Giulio! Some call me cold, and some demure, And if thou hast ever guessed that so I love thee … well;—the proof was poor, And no one could be sure. Before thy song (with shifted rhymes To suit my name) did I undo The persian? If it moved sometimes, Thou...
That England

From “Aurora Leigh” WHOEVER lives true life, will love true love. I learned to love that England. Very oft, Before the day was born, or otherwise Through secret windings of the afternoons, I threw my hunters off and plunged myself Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag Will take the waters,...
A View across the Roman Campagna

1861 over the dumb campagna-sea, Out in the offing through mist and rain, Saint Peter’s Church heaves silently Like a mighty ship in pain, Facing the tempest with struggle and strain. Motionless waifs of ruined towers, Soundless breakers of desolate land! The sullen surf of the mist...