The Poetical Works
OF
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I.

Of English descent, born in Tuscany,

What country should we give her?

Instead of anything on the planet,

The community welcomes her.

II.

And here among the English graves

In Tuscan soil we buried her,

While the blue Tuscan sky embraces

Our English prayers.

4

III.

A little child!—how long she lived,

By months, not years, is counted:

Born in July, she lived

Alone to see another.

IV.

Bright-faced, like the July sun

Her little face still showed emotion,

And glories, with her birth starting,

Had had no time for fading.

V.

So, Lily, from those July days,

No surprise we should give her a call;

She felt such a connection to the flowers,—

Was just a bit taller.

VI.

A white Tuscan Lily,

As Dante, in disgust

Of red corruption, wished right

The lilies of his Florence.

5

VII.

We couldn’t want her any whiter—her

Who scented with pure flower

The house—a beautiful thing to live in

On a mother's breast!

VIII.

This creature thought maybe this July

Our speech isn't worth assuming;

She sat on her parents' laps.

And imitated the gnat’s buzzing;

IX.

Said "dad," "mom"—then stopped,

For heavenly tongues, more suitable:

Her hair had grown just long enough

To catch heaven’s sparkling beauty.

X.

Babes! Love could always hear and see.

Behind the cloud that concealed them.

“Let little children come to Me,

And don’t hold them back.

6

XI.

So, friendly, have we met,

And gently here have laid her,

Though winter is no time to get

The flowers that should cover her:

XII.

We should bring pansies quickly with spring,

Rose, violet, daffodil,

And also, above all,

White lilies for our Lily.

XIII.

Nay, more than flowers, this grave demands,—

Happy, thankful expressions

Of her lovely eyes and charming actions,

With peaceful let-goes.

XIV.

Her own mother with light feet

Should leave the place too grounded,

Saying “The angels have you, Sweet,

“Because we aren't worthy.”

7

XV.

But winter kills the orange buds,

The gardens in the frost are,

And all the heart melts away in floods,

Remembering that we’ve lost her.

XVI.

Poor earth, poor heart—too weak, too weak

To miss July's shine!

Poor heart!—what harsh words we say

When God talks about quitting!

XVII.

Sustain this heart within us that weakens,

You God, the self-existent!

We get wild when we say goodbye to friends.

And feel Your heaven is too far away.

XVIII.

The wind that carried them away from sin

Has messed up all our clothes:

On the closed door that allowed them to enter

We struck with frantic gestures—

8

XIX.

To us, also, open up directly!

The outside is cold;

Are we also, like the earth, supposed to wait

Till next year for our Lily?

XX.

—Oh, my little one on my lap,

My bouncing, dimpled treasure,

At every word I write like this,

Held tightly with more force!

XXI.

Too well my own heart understands,—

At every word beats deeper—

My tiny feet, my tiny hands,

And hair the color of Lily!

XXII.

But God gives patience; Love learns strength.

And Faith remembers the promise,

And Hope itself can finally smile

On other hopes that have left us.

9

XXIII.

Love, just as strong as Death, will overcome Death,

Through struggle became more glorious:

This mother calms her sobbing breaths,

Giving up yet winning.

XXIV.

Arms, empty of her child, she lifts

With undaunted spirit, —

“God will not take back all His gifts;

My Lily is in heaven.

XXV.

"Still mine! Maternal rights matter."

Not to be given to anyone else!

The crystal bars shine dimly between

The souls of the child and the mother.

XXVI.

"Meanwhile," the mother cries, "happy!"

Our love was equally shared:

Its sweetness followed her wherever she went,

Its anguish stayed where I was.

10

XXVII.

“Well done of God, to split the share,

And give her all the sweetness;

To us, the vacant room and bed,—

To her, the Heaven's perfection.

XXVIII.

“To us, this grave,—to her, the rows

The mystical palm trees spring in;

To us, the silence in the house,—

For her, the choir singing.

XXIX.

“For her, to rejoice in God’s sight,—

For us, to keep hoping and push through.

Grow, Lily, in your new garden,

Next to the Rose of Sharon!

XXX.

“Grow fast in heaven, sweet Lily clipped,

In love more peaceful than this is,

And may the angels with moist lips

Remember our kisses!

11

XXXI.

“While no one will tell you about our tears,

These tears are falling now,

Till, after a few patient years,

One home will welcome us all.

XXXII.

"Child, father, mother—who's missing?"

Not mom, and not dad!

And when, our dying couch around,

The natural fog will gather,

XXXIII.

“Some smiling angel nearby shall stand

In the style of Correggio,

And hold a Lily in his hand,

For death’s ANNUNCIATION.

I.

On the door you won't enter,

I have stared too long: goodbye!

Hope withdraws her chance;

Death is near me, not you.

Come, my love,

Shut and cover

These poor eyes, you called, I think,

"Cutest eyes ever seen!"

II.

When I heard you sing that song

In my spring days and gardens,

Other praises aside,

I just listened to what you said—

13

Just saying

In heart gaming,

“Blessed are my eyes,

If the sweetest things have been seen!

III.

But everything changes. At this evening,

Cold, the sun shines down at the door.

If you stood there, would you whisper

“Love, I love you,” just like before,—

Death everywhere

Now, and shading

Eyes you sang of, last night,

The sweetest ever seen?

IV.

Yes. I think, if you were next to them,

Near the bed I am dying on,

Though you denied them their beauty,

As you stood there, looking down,

You would really

Call them officially,

For the love found in it,

“Sweetest eyes ever seen.”

14

V.

And if you looked down on them,

And if they looked up to you,

All the light that has passed them by

Would be gathered again:

They would genuinely

Be as appropriate

Love turned into beauty's shine,

“Sweetest eyes ever seen.”

VI.

But, oh man! you only see me,

In your thoughts of loving a man,

Soft, dreamy smile

Through the waves of my fan;

And unliking

Go on repeating,

In your peaceful daydream,

"Sweetest eyes I've ever seen——"

VII.

While my spirit leans and reaches

From my body, still and pale,

Fain to hear what sweet words are

In your love to help my suffering.

15

Oh my poet,

Come and share it!

Come, of the latest love, to gather

“The sweetest eyes ever seen.”

VIII.

O my poet, O my prophet,

When you praised their sweetness like that,

Did you think, while singing about it,

That it might be close to leaving?

Did you have any fancies?

From their looks,

That the grave would quickly cover

"Sweetest eyes ever seen"?

IX.

No response. The fountain’s murmur

In the courtyard, just sounds.

As the water to the marble

So my heart sinks with a sigh

From love sighing

To this dying out.

Death precedes Love to win

"Sweetest eyes ever seen."

16

X.

Will you come? After I'm gone

Where all the sweetness is hidden,

Where is your voice, my tender-hearted,

Will not lift up either lid.

Cry, oh lover,

Love is dead!

Cry under the green cypress,

"Sweetest eyes ever seen!"

XI.

When the angelus is ringing,

Near the convent will you walk,

And remember the choir singing

Which angels brought down our conversation?

Spirit-driven

I saw Heaven,

Till you smiled—“Is the earth dirty,

"Sweetest eyes ever seen?"

XII.

When under the palace lattice

You ride slowly as you always have,

And you see a face there that is

Not the old familiar one—

17

Will you often

Whisper softly,

“Here you watched me morning and evening,

"Sweetest eyes ever seen!"

XIII.

When the palace ladies, sitting

Round your gittern, shall have said,

"Poet, sing those written verses"

For the woman who has passed away,"

Will you shake?

Yet mislead,—

Or sing roughly, with tears in between,

“Sweetest eyes ever seen”?

XIV.

“Sweetest eyes!” how sweet in flowing

The repeated rhythm is!

Though you sang a hundred poems,

Still, the best one would be this.

I can hear that

Between my spirit

And the earth sounds intervene—

"Sweetest eyes anyone has seen!"

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XV.

But the priest waits for the prayer,

And the choir is on their knees,

And the soul must pass away in

Strains more serious than these.

Miserere

For the tired!

Oh, no longer for Catrine.

"Sweetest eyes ever seen!"

XVI.

Keep my ribbon, take it and hold on to it,

(I have taken it out of my hair)[1]

Feeling, while you cry it out,

Not alone in your struggles,

Since with holy

Watch closely

Out of heaven will lean over you

"Sweetest eyes ever seen."

XVII.

But—but now—yet unremoved

Up to heaven, they shine bright;

19

You may let go, Beloved,

In your future, all my past:

Such outdated phrases

Could be compliments

For a fairer queen—

“Sweetest eyes ever seen!”

XVIII.

Eyes of mine, what are you doing?

Faithless, faithless—wrongly praised

If a tear is visible from you,

Dropped any hope of HIS!

Death is bold

Besides chill,

If unworthy tears diminish

“Sweetest eyes ever seen.”

XIX.

I will look out for his future;

I will bless it until it shines.

Should he ever be a contender

To sweeter eyes than mine,

Sunshine shines on them,

Angels protect them,

Whatever earthly eyes

Be the sweetest HIS has seen!

I.

Fast this Life of mine was dying,

Blind already and calm as death,

Snowflakes lying on her chest

Barely breathing.

II.

Love came by, and having known her

In a dream of legendary places,

Gently bent down and placed on her

Holy oil of blessed hands;

III.

Drew his smile across her folded

Eyelids, like a swooping swallow;

Breathed as softly as the cold did

Through the sealing of her lips.

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IV.

So, when Life looked up, being

Warmed and breathed on from above,

What could she see?

Evermore ... but only Love?

I.

We met late—it's too late to get together,

O friend, not just a friend!

Death's impending shroud is tangled around my feet,

And if I move or shift, I reach the end.

In this final jeopardy

Can I come to you, when I can't move?

How should I respond to your request for love?

Look at my face and see.

II.

I don't love you, I can't love you! Go

In silence; let go of my hand.

If you want roses, look for them where they bloom.

In garden paths, not in desert sand.

Can life and death coexist,

That you should lower your song to my complaint?

I can't love you. If the word is weak,

Look at my face and see.

23

III.

I might have loved you in the past.

Oh, then, my spirits had jumped

As they sink now, hearing you praise my love!

Before these worn cheeks were overspoken,

Had this been asked of me,

To love you with all my heart and mind, —

I should have said still ... yes, but smiled and said,

“Look at my face and see!”

IV.

But now ... God sees me, God, who has taken my heart

And submerged it in the rush of life.

In all your expansive, warm world, I have no place—

A gentle song fills me with an overwhelming sadness like a funeral dirge.

Could love's great harmony

The saints move in time when their ties are free,

Not burden me? Am I a wife to choose?

Look at my face and see—

V.

While I see it, as clearly as someone who dreams,

A woman of great value,

Whose voice, as smooth as a flowing silver stream,

Shall prove the source of life that brings it into being;

24

One younger, more carefree

And fair and cheerful, you must forget me.

With brighter eyes than these ... which aren't wet ...

Look at my face and see!

VI.

So goodbye to you, whom I've known too late

To let you come so close.

Be considered happy while people call you great,

And one beloved woman cares for you deeply!—

Not me!—that can't be.

I am lost, I am changed—I have to keep going, where

The change will hit me hard, and no one dares

Look at my face and see.

VII.

Meantime, I bless you. With these thoughts of mine

I wish you all the best away from that!

I bless your lamp with oil, your cup with wine,

Your home brings joy, your hand reaches out equally

Of loyal faith. For me,

I don't love you, I don't love you!—go away!

Here’s no courage left in my soul to speak

“Look at my face and see.”

I.

Do you love me, my Beloved?

Who will say yes or no?

What is proved or disproved

When my soul asks like this,

Do you love me, my beloved?

II.

I have seen your heart today,

Never reveal to the audience,

While to love me always and forever

Was the vow made as it was promised?

By your calm gray eyes.

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III.

Now I’m sitting all alone—

And the hot tears flow and sting,

Now, Beloved, you are gone,

Doubt and fear have their moment.

Is it love that I've felt?

IV.

I have experienced some difficult things,—

Pain, rage, loneliness.

Year after year, a wicked force arrives,

Year by year denies a good;

March winds disrupt my springs.

V.

I have seen how illness changes,

I have understood how sorrow shatters,—

How quickly hopes come to a sudden end,

How the heart thinks until it hurts

Of the smile of friends who have passed away.

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VI.

Last, I have known you, my brave

Great mind, lover, achiever!

The best knowledge I have is the last.

But you come as the thrower

Of fresh flowers on a grave.

VII.

Count what feelings used to inspire me!

Can this love be compatible with those?

You, who are so far above me,

Will you bend down like that, just for a rest?

Is it true that you can love me?

VIII.

Do not blame me if I question you.

I can call love what it is.

When your arm is wrapped around me;

But even love doesn't seem the same,

When I sit alone, without you.

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IX.

In your clear eyes, I saw

Many ways to prove love today;

But tonight, those unconvincing

Speechless eyes fading away,

There’s the proof to look for, next to it.

X.

Do you love me, my beloved?

Only you can answer yes!

And with you gone, the proof is disproved,

And the cry rings unanswered—

Do you love me, my Beloved?

I.

Love you seek, presupposes

Summer heat and sunshine.

Tell me, do you find moss roses?

Budding, blooming in the snow?

Snow might hurt the rose tree’s roots—

Shake it off quickly from your foot,

Lest it hurt you as you continue on your way.

II.

From the ivy where it casts patterns

A gray ruin, stone by stone,

Do you want grapes or apples?

Or just for lonely green leaves?

Pluck off two or three leaves—

Keep them for the right reasons.

When you are safe and gone.

I.

Oh, will you take my hand, dear, to rest next to yours?

As a small stone in a flowing stream, it appears to rest and long for something more.

Now let go of that pale hand, dear, it's not worthy to join with yours.

II.

Oh, will you bring my cheek closer to yours, dear?

My cheek is pale, my cheek is tired, from so many tears streaming down.

Now leave a little space, dear, so it doesn't get wet.

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III.

Oh, do you really need my soul, dear, mixed with yours?—

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole:

Nor hands nor cheeks stay apart when soul is connected to soul.

I.

There is no one beside you and no one above you,

You stand alone as the nightingale sings!

And my words that would praise you are powerless things,

For no one can describe you, even if everyone agrees with you.

I love you so much, dear, that I can only love you.

II.

Say, what can I do for you? Exhaust you, upset you?

Lean on your shoulder, new burdens to carry?

Weep my tears over you, making you sad?

Oh, don't hold me—don't love me! Let me get you back.

I love you so much, dear, that the only way I can let you go is by leaving you.

I once thought about how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the beloved and longed-for years,

Who each person in a gracious hand shows up as

To bring a gift for people, whether they're old or young:

And, as I thought about it in his old-fashioned language,

I watched, slowly seeing through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those in my life, who at different times had thrown

A shadow fell over me. Immediately, I was aware,

So weeping, a mysterious figure moved

Behind me, and pulled me back by my hair;

And a voice spoke with authority while I struggled,—

“Guess who’s got you now?”—“Death,” I said. But, there,

The silver answer rang out, “Not Death, but Love.”

But only three in all of God's universe

Have heard this word you have said,—Himself, beside

Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied

One of us ... that was God, ... and placed the curse

So dark on my eyelids, as to punish

My view of you—if I had died,

The deathweights placed there would have meant

Less absolute exclusion. "No" is worse.

From God rather than from anyone else, O my friend!

Men couldn't separate us from their earthly possessions,

Nor do the seas change us, nor do the storms bend us;

Our hands would touch for all the mountain bars:

And, with heaven separating us in the end,

We should just promise to hurry for the stars.

Unlike are we, unlike, O noble Heart!

Unlike our uses and our fates.

Our two angels are shocked.

On each other, as they hit across

Their wings in passing. You, think about it, are

A guest for queens at social events,

With gauges from a hundred brighter eyes

Than tears even can make mine, to play your part

Of chief musician. What do you have to do

With the lattice lights looking down at me,

A broke, exhausted, wandering singer, singing through

The dark, and leaning against a cypress tree?

The chrism is on your head—on mine, the dew—

And Death must find the common ground where these meet.

You have your calling to some palace floor,

Most gracious singer of lofty poems! Where

The dancers will break from their routines, freeing themselves from the constraints.

Of watching your pregnant lips for more.

And do you lift this house's latch too poorly?

For your hand? Can you think and handle it?

To let your music fall here without notice

In layers of golden fullness at my door?

Look up and see the window smashed in,

The bats and owls are building in the roof!

My cricket chirps against your mandolin.

Hush, don’t call for an echo as more evidence.

Of desolation! there’s a voice within

That cries ... as you must sing ... alone, apart.

I lift my heavy heart up seriously,

As once Electra her burial urn,

And, looking into your eyes, I turn everything upside down

The ashes at your feet. Look and see.

What a huge amount of grief was hidden inside me,

And how the red wild sparks softly glow

Through the dull grayness. If your foot in contempt

Could walk them out to complete darkness,

It might be good, maybe. But if instead

You wait beside me for the wind to blow

The gray dust up, ... those laurels on your head,

O my Beloved, will not protect you like that,

That none of the fires shall burn and tear

The hair underneath. Step back then! Go.

Go away from me. Still, I sense that I will stay

From now on in your shadow. Never again.

Alone on the edge of my door

Of individual life, I will take control

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the awareness of what I held back—

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

Doom separates us, leaving your heart with mine.

With a heartbeat that races. What I do

And what I dream includes you, like the wine

Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

God for myself, He hears your name,

And sees the tears of two in my eyes.

The face of the entire world has changed, I believe,

Since I first heard the footsteps of your soul

Move quietly now, oh, still, beside me, as they took

Betwixt me and the terrible outer edge

Of clear death, where I, who thought I would sink,

Was swept away by love and learned everything

Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of support

God provided for baptism; I am eager to partake.

And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with you nearby.

The names of country and heaven are changed.

For wherever you are or will be, there or here;

And this ... this lute and song ... loved yesterday,

(The singing angels know) are only dear

Because your name fits perfectly in what they say.

What can I give you back, oh generous

And noble donor, who has brought the gold

And the purple of your heart, pure and unspoken,

And placed them on the outside of the wall.

For someone like me to take or leave it,

In unexpected generosity? Am I cold,

Ungrateful, that for all these various

High gifts, do I give nothing in return?

Not so; not cold—just very poor instead.

Ask God who knows. For many tears have flowed

The colors from my life, and left so lifeless

And pale a stuff, it was not done properly

To give the same as a pillow for your head.

Go further! Let it be used as a stepping stone.

Can it be okay to give what I can give?

To let you sit beneath the waterfall of tears

As salty as mine, and hear the sighing years

Sighing in resignation

Through those rare smiles that don’t truly come to life

For all your pleas? Oh my fears,

That can hardly be right! We aren't equals,

So, to be in love; and I admit it, and it hurts,

That people who give gifts like mine must

Be among the stingy. Oh no!

I won't dirtied your purple with my dust,

Nor breathe my poison on your Venice glass,

Nor give you any love—which would be unfair.

Beloved, I only love you! Just let it go.

Yet, love, just love, is truly beautiful.

And worth accepting. Fire is bright,

Let the temple burn or the flax; both give the same light.

Leaps in the fire from cedar plank or grass:

And love is fire. And when I say when needed

I love you ... pay attention!... I love you—in your sight

I stand transformed, glorified correctly,

With awareness of the new rays that come

Out of my face toward yours. There’s nothing low

In love, when love is at its lowest: the humblest beings

Whoever loves God, God accepts while loving them in return.

And what I feel, across the lesser features

Of what I am, does it flash and show itself

How that great work of Love enhances Nature’s.

And so, if loving can be a reward,

I’m not completely unworthy. Cheeks as pale

As you see, and trembling knees that can't hold up

To carry the weight of a heavy heart,—

This tired life of a traveling musician that used to be surrounded

To climb Aornus, and can hardly succeed

To sing now against the valley nightingale

Sad music — why mention it?

To these things? Oh beloved, it's clear

I am not of your worth or for your position!

And yet, because I love you, I get

From that same love, this redeeming grace,

To continue living in love, yet in vain,—

To bless you, yet reject you to your face.

Indeed, this very love that I take pride in,

And which, when rising from chest to forehead,

Crown me with a large enough ruby.

To catch men's attention and show the true cost inside,—

This love, all my value, to the fullest,

I shouldn't love at all unless you

Had set me an example, shown me how,

When your sincere eyes first met mine,

And love is love. And so, I can't say anything.

Of love, even, as something precious to me:

Your soul has taken my own, all faint and weak,

And set it next to you on a golden throne,—

And that I love (Oh soul, we need to be humble!)

Is by you alone, whom I love only.

And do you want me to turn this into words?

The love I have for you, finding the right words,

And hold the torch out while the winds are strong,

Between our faces, to shine a light on each other?—

I drop it at your feet. I can’t teach

My hand to keep my spirit so distant

From myself—me—that I should bring you proof

In words, love is hidden in me, out of reach.

Nay, let the silence of my womanhood

Commend my beloved to your understanding,—

Seeing that I remain unclaimed, no matter how much I'm pursued,

And tear apart the fabric of my life, in short,

By an incredibly brave, silent strength,

Lest one touch of this heart reveal its sadness.

If you must love me, let it be for nothing

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say

“I love her for her smile—her gaze—her style

Of speaking gently—for a trick of thought

That fits perfectly with mine, and surely brought

A feeling of comfortable relaxation on a day like this—

For these things themselves, my Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for you—and love, so made,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Your own kind pity is drying my tears, —

A creature might forget to cry, who bore

Your comfort won’t last long, and you’ll lose your love because of it!

But love me for the sake of love, that always

You can keep loving, through love’s eternity.

Accuse me not, please, that I wear

Too calm and sad a face in front of you;

For the two of us see things differently, and can't shine.

With the same sunlight on our foreheads and hair.

On me you look with no doubt in your mind,

As if a bee trapped in a crystal;

Since sorrow has locked me safely in love’s embrace,

And to spread my wings and fly in the open sky

Were it mostly impossible to fail, if I tried.

To fail like that. But I look at you—at you—

Beholding, along with love, the end of love,

Hearing nothing beyond memory;

As someone who sits and looks from above,

Over the rivers to the bitter sea.

And yet, because you overcome like this,

Because you are more noble and like a king,

Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling

Thy purple surrounds me, until my heart will grow

Too close to your heart from now on to understand

How it trembled when it was alone. Why, conquering

May turn out to be as grand and fulfilling a thing

In rising up, just like in being pushed down!

And as a defeated soldier gives up his sword

To someone who raises him from the bloody ground,

Even so, Beloved, I finally write down,

Here ends my struggle. If you invite me out,

I rise above humiliation at the word.

Make your love bigger to increase my worth.

My poet, you can hit all the notes

God placed a boundary between His After and Before,

And start up and shut down the overall noise

Of the rushing worlds, a melody that drifts

In a calm atmosphere, just the way it is. Remedies

Of therapeutic music, responding for

Mankind's saddest uses, you can pour

From there into their ears. God's will dedicates

Yours for that purpose, and mine to wait for you.

How, my dear, do you want me to be most useful to you?

A hope, to sing by happily? or a nice

Sad memory, should your songs mingle with my thoughts?

A spot to sing—under a palm or a pine?

A grave to take a break from singing? Your choice.

I never gave away a lock of hair.

To a man, my dearest, accept this from you,

Which now I thoughtfully have on my fingers,

I call out to the entire brown length and say

“Take it.” My youth slipped away yesterday;

My hair no longer brings joy to my feet,

Nor do I plant it from a rose or myrtle tree,

As girls do anymore: it only might

Now let tears leave their mark on two pale cheeks,

Taught hanging down from the head that is tilted to the side

Through sorrow's deception, I thought the funeral shears

Would take this first, but Love makes sense,—

Take it, you—finding it pure, after all those years,

The kiss my mom left here when she passed away.

The soul's Rialto has its goods;

I trade one curl for another at that market,

And from my poet's forehead to my heart

Receive this lock that’s worth more than treasures,—

As dark purple-black as it was to Pindar’s eyes

The dark purple strands hung gloomily across

The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, ...

The shadow of the bay crown, my dear, I believe,

Still hanging on your curl, it's so black!

Thus, with a gentle breath that felt like a soft kiss,

I secure the shadows from sliding back,

And place the gift where nothing gets in the way;

Here on my heart, just like on your forehead, to be without

No natural warmth until mine fades away in death.

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think

That you were in the world a year ago,

What time I sat alone here in the snow

And saw no footprints, heard the silence settle

No moment at your voice, but, link by link,

Went counting all my chains as if that so

They could never fall off from any impact.

Struck by your possible hand—well, this is how I drink

Of life's amazing cup of wonder! Amazing,

Never to feel your excitement day or night

With personal actions or words,—nor ever choose

Some foresight of you with the white blossoms

Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,

Who can't sense God's presence even when it's hidden?

Say it again, and one more time,

That you love me. Even though the word repeated

Should seem “a cuckoo song,” as you treat it.

Remember, never to the hill or plain,

Valley and woods, without her cuckoo song.

Comes the fresh Spring, fully dressed in all her green.

Beloved, I, in the darkness greeted

By a uncertain spirit-voice, in that pain of doubt

Cry, "Say it again—you love me!" Who can be afraid

Too many stars, even if each one rolls in the sky,

Too many flowers, but will each one make the year special?

Say you love me, love me, love me—toll

The silver iteration!—just a thought, dear,

To love me even quietly with your soul.

When our two souls stand upright and strong,

Face to face, silent, getting closer and closer,

Until the extended wings burst into flames

At either curved point, what bitter wrong

Can the earth do to us what we don't already desire?

Be here satisfied? Consider. As you rise higher,

The angels would push us forward and aim high.

To create a beautiful melody

Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay

Rather on earth, Beloved,—where the unfit

Contrary moods of people push away

And isolate pure spirits, and allow

A spot to stand and love for a day,

With darkness and the time of death approaching it.

Is it really true? If I lie here dead,

Would you miss any part of your life if you lost mine?

And would the sun shine more coldly for you

Because of grave dampness surrounding my head?

I was amazed, my beloved, when I read

Thy thought so in the letter. I am yours—

But ... so much for you? Can I pour your wine?

While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead

Of dreams about death, life takes on a lesser tone.

Then, love me, Love! Look at me—breathe on me!

As more stylish women do not find it unusual,

For love, to give up land and status,

I give up the grave for you and trade

My almost sweet glimpse of Heaven, for earth with you!

Let the world's edge, like a gripping knife,

Shut away and don’t cause any harm.

In this gentle grasp of Love, now tender and warm,

And let's not hear any sound of human conflict.

After the click of the closing. Life to life—

I lean on you, dear, without worry,

And feel as safe as if protected by a spell

Against the jab of worldly people, who if abundant

Are weak to injure. Very-whitely still

The lilies of our lives may reassure

Their flowers grow from their roots, easy to reach.

Alone with heavenly dewdrops that fall without fewer

Growing straight, out of reach for humans, on the hill.

God alone, who made us wealthy, can make us poor.

A heavy heart, Beloved, have I carried.

From year to year until I saw your face,

And one sadness after another took the place

Of all those natural joys that are easily embraced

As the string of pearls, each raised in its turn

By a beating heart during dance time. Hopes are racing

Were turned into long periods of despair, until God's own grace

Could barely rise above the desolate world

My heavy heart. Then you asked me to bring

And let it fall down your calmly great

Deep being! It sinks quickly, like a thing

Which its own nature does bring about,

While yours closes above it, mediating

Between the stars and the unfulfilled destiny.

I had big dreams for my company.

Instead of men and women, years ago,

And found them kind companions, not thinking to understand

A sweeter music than what they played for me.

But soon their trailing purple was no longer free

Of this world’s dust, their lutes grew silent,

And I started to feel weak and lost my vision below.

Their fading eyes. Then YOU came—to be,

Beloved, how they appeared. Their bright exteriors,

Their songs, their glories (better, yet the same,

As river water turned into fonts),

Met in you, and from you overcame

My soul is satisfied with everything I need:

Because God's gifts make man's greatest dreams look insignificant.

My own beloved, who has lifted me

From this bleak stretch of land where I ended up,

And, in between the relaxed curls, blown

A breath of life, until the forehead hopefully

Shines out again, just like all the angels see,

Before your saving kiss! My own, my own,

Who came to me when the world had disappeared,

And I who sought only God, found you!

I found you; I feel safe, strong, and happy.

As someone who stands in dry asphodel

Looks back on the boring time he had

In the higher life,—so I, with heart full,

Make a witness, here, between the good and bad,

That love, as powerful as death, brings back as well.

My letters! all lifeless paper, silent and blank!

And yet they seem alive and trembling.

Against my shaky hands that let go of the string

And let them drop down on my knee tonight.

This said, he wanted me to be in his sight

Once, as a friend: this set a day in spring.

To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing,

Yet I cried for it!—this, ... the paper’s light ...

Said, Honey, I love you; and I sank and felt weak.

As if God's future echoed through my past.

This being said, I am yours—and so its ink has faded

With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

And this ... O Love, your words have not helped at all

If what this said, I dared to repeat at last!

I think of you!—my thoughts intertwine and grow

About you, like wild vines around a tree,

Put out wide leaves, and soon there's nothing left to see.

Except for the scattered greenery that conceals the forest.

Yet, O my palm tree, be it understood

I won't have my thoughts instead of you.

Who is dearer, better! Rather, instantly

Renew your presence; like a strong tree should,

Rustle your branches and lay your trunk bare,

And let these groups of greenery that surround you

Drop down hard,—burst, shattered, everywhere!

Because, in this deep joy of seeing and hearing you

And breathe a fresh air in your shadow,

I don’t think about you—I’m too close to you.

I see your image through my tears tonight,

And yet today I saw you smiling. How

Refer the cause?—Beloved, is it you

Or I, who makes me sad? The helper

Amid the joyful chants and acts of gratitude

May fall completely dull, with a pale, unfeeling forehead,

On the altar steps. I hear your voice and promise,

Perplexed and unsure, since you are out of sight,

As he, in his dazed state, heard the choir's Amen.

Beloved, do you love me? Or did I see it all?

The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when

Too intense light expanded my ideal,

For my soul's eyes? Will that light return,

As these tears fall now—hot and real?

You’re here! Everything is communicated without a word.

I sit under your gaze, just like children do.

In the midday sun, with spirits that quiver through

Their happy eyelids from an unverified

Yet excessive inner joy. Look, I made a mistake.

In that final doubt! And yet I can't regret

The sin is the worst part, but so is the situation—both of us

Should for a moment stand without assistance

By being together. Ah, stay close and nearby,

Thou gentle help! And, when my fears would grow,

With your open heart, calmly step in:

Brood down with your divine abilities

These thoughts that shake when they're without those,

Like inexperienced birds taking flight into the open sky.

The first time that the sun rose on your oath

To love me, I eagerly awaited the moon.

To loosen all those ties that felt too restrictive

And quickly tied to make a lasting promise.

Quick-loving hearts, I thought, can quickly grow to hate;

And, when I looked at myself, I didn’t seem like one.

For such a man's love!—more like an out-of-tune

Worn viol, a good singer would be angry.

To ruin his song with, and which, grabbed in a rush,

Is established at the first unpleasant note.

I didn’t hurt myself like that, but I put

A wrong against you. Because perfect melodies can linger

Under master hands, from worn instruments,—

And great souls, in one moment, can achieve and be affectionate.

Yes, call me by my nickname! Let me hear it.

The name I used to go by as a child,

From innocent play, and leave the cowslips stacked,

To look up at a face that showed me love

With the look in its eyes. I miss the clarity

Fond voices that are drawn together and reconciled

Into the music of Heaven’s pure,

Call me no more. Silence on the coffin,

While I call God—call God!—So let your mouth

Be an heir to those who are now lifeless.

Gather the northern flowers to finish the southern ones,

And capture the early love in the late moments.

Yes, call me by that name—and I, honestly,

With the same heart, I will respond without delay.

With the same heart, I said, I’ll answer you.

As those, when you call me by my name—

Lo, the empty promise! It’s the same, the same,

Perplexed and unsettled by life’s game?

When I was called before, I said how quickly

I dropped my flowers or quit playing a game,

To run and respond with the smile that appeared

At play at the last moment, and continued with me

Through my obedience. When I respond now,

I let go of a serious thought, stepping away from being alone;

Yet still my heart goes to you—think about how—

Not just to one good thing, but to all my good things!

Lay your hand on it, best one, and allow

That no child's foot could run as fast as this blood.

If I give up everything for you, will you trade

And be everything to me? Will I never feel a lack?

Home talk, blessings, and the usual kiss

That happens to each person in their own time, so don’t find it odd,

When I look up to take on a new challenge

Of walls and floors, is there another home besides this one?

Nay, will you take that spot next to me which is

Filled with lifeless eyes too gentle to recognize change?

That’s the hardest part. If you’ve tried to conquer love,

To overcome grief, try harder, as everything shows;

For grief is really love and grief together.

Alas, I've been through so much that I'm hard to love.

Yet love me—will you? Open your heart wide,

And fold within the wet wings of your dove.

When we first met and fell in love, I didn't build

Upon the event with marble. Could it mean

To endure, a love hangs in the balance

Sorrow and sadness? No, I was more excited,

Distrusting every light that appeared to shine

The forward path, and afraid to bend too much

A finger too. And, even though I've become calm

And strong since then, I believe that God has intended

A constant, fresh fear ... Oh love, oh promise ...

Lest these clasped hands should never hold,

This shared kiss falls between us both.

As an unowned object, once the lips became cold.

And love, be untrue! if he, to keep one promise,

Must lose one joy, as predicted by his life's destiny.

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make,

Of all that powerful divine essence that I know

For you and your, an image only so

Made of sand, capable of shifting and breaking.

It is those distant years that did not take

Thy sovereignty, retreating from a strike,

Have pushed my swimming brain to go through

Their doubt and fear, and thoughtlessly abandon

Thy purity of likeness and distort

Your greatest love to a worthless fake:

As if a shipwrecked pagan, safe in port,

His guardian sea god to honor,

Should create a sculpted porpoise, snorting through its gills

And vibrant tail, within the temple gate.

First time he kissed me, he just kissed.

The fingers of this hand that I'm using to write;

And ever since, it became cleaner and whiter,

Slow to greet the world, quick with its “Oh, listen,”

When the angels talk. A circle of amethyst

I couldn't wear it here, clearer for me to see,

Than that first kiss. The second soared in intensity.

The first one aimed for the forehead but mostly missed,

Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond measure!

That was the oil of love, which is love’s own crown,

With sweet purity, did precede.

The third on my lips was folded down

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,

I have felt proud and said, “My love, my own.”

Because you have the power and possess the grace

To see through and beyond this façade of mine

(Against which years have beat thus blanchingly

With their rains), and see my soul’s true face,

The tired and worn-out observer of life's journey,—

Because you have the faith and love to see,

Through that same soul’s annoying sluggishness,

The patient angel waiting for a spot

In the new Heavens—because neither sin nor sorrow,

Nor God's punishment, nor the proximity of death,

Nor does everyone turn to leave after seeing the others,

Nor does everything that makes me tired of everything, when I look at myself,—

Nothing drives you away, ... Darling, please show me how.

To express gratitude, as you do, is great!

Oh, yes! They love throughout this world of ours!

I won't deny love, truly called love.

I heard people talk about love when I was young,

And since it wasn't too long ago that the flowers

Then gathered, the smell still lingering. Muslims and non-believers.

Throw handkerchiefs at a smile, and feel no regret.

For any crying. Polyphemus's white tooth

Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,

The shell is too smooth—and not really

Will turn something called love into hate.

Or else to oblivion. But you are not like that.

A lover, my Beloved! You can wait

Through pain and illness, to help souls connect,

And realize it quickly when others shout "Too late."

I thank everyone who has loved me in their hearts,

With love and gratitude from me. Huge thanks to everyone.

Who stopped for a moment by the prison wall

To hear my music when it's louder

Ere they went onward, each one to the market's

Or temple's occupation, beyond call.

But you, who, in the decline and fall of my voice

When the sob took it, your greatest art's

Own instrument dropped down at your feet.

To listen to what I said through my tears, ...

Instruct me on how to thank you! Oh, to shoot

My soul's complete meaning for the years to come,

That they should give it a voice, and greet

Love that lasts, from life that fades away!

My future won't mirror my past—

I wrote that once, and thought beside me

My guardian angel justified

The word by his attractive gaze cast up

To the white throne of God, I finally turned,

And there, instead, saw you, not without connections

To the angels in your soul! Then I, long tested

By natural issues, received the fast comfort,

While growing, at your sight, my pilgrim's staff

Gave out green leaves with morning dew sparkling.

I don’t want a duplicate of my life's first half anymore:

Leave the pages here, filled with deep thoughts,

And write me a new epigraph for my future,

New angel of mine, unexpected in this world!

How do I love you? Let me list the ways.

I love you to the fullest extent.

My soul can reach when I feel unseen

For the purposes of existence and perfect kindness.

I love you to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sunlight and candlelight.

I love you openly, just as people fight for what is right;

I love you completely, like they turn away from praise.

I love you with the passion put to use

In my past sorrows, and with my childhood belief.

I love you with a love I thought I'd lost

With my lost saints—I love you with every breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God wills,

I will love you even more after death.

Beloved, you have given me many flowers

Plucked from the garden, all summer long

And winter came, and it felt like they were growing

In this small room, we didn't miss out on the sun and rain.

So, in the same spirit of that love we share,

Take back these thoughts that were expressed here too,

And on warm and cold days, I took myself away.

From the depths of my heart. Truly, those beds and shaded areas

Be covered with thorny weeds and regret,

And wait for your wedding; but here's some wild rose,

Here’s ivy!—take them, like I used to.

Your flowers, and keep them where they won't wilt.

Instruct your eyes to keep their colors true,

And tell your soul their roots are still in mine.

“O trusted, flawed prophecy,

O richest fortune sadly crossed,

Born for the future, yet lost to the future!”

I heard a little child singing last night.

’Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church,

Oh beautiful freedom, oh beautiful!—stringing

The same words still on notes, he went looking.

So high for, you concluded the rising

Of such a quick bird to fly from its perch

Must leave the entire bush trembling green,

And that the heart of Italy has to beat,

While such a voice was allowed to rise peacefully

’Twixt church and palace of a Florence street:

A little child, too, who had not been long

By my mother’s finger steadying on his feet,

And still O bella libertà he sang.

Then I thought, pondering, about the countless

Sweet songs that still resound for Italy

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From the lips of older singers who didn't sing like this

Exuberantly and sincerely, yet, with pain

Fast wrapped in music, it touched our hearts.

So finely that the pity hardly hurt.

I thought about how Filicaja inspired others,

Grievers for their Italy trapped,

And how they called her childless among mothers,

Widow of empires, yeah, and hardly held back

Cursing her beauty to her face, as brothers

Might a shamed sister’s,—“If she had been less beautiful

She was less miserable;—how, evoking so

From gathered wrong and piled-up despair

Of men and women twisting in pain,

Haggard and ugly in a dirty den,

Some impersonating image of woe

Was wrapped in beauty, preventing much offense,

They called it Cybele or Niobe,

Or placed it lifeless on a table for that,

Where everyone in the world might fall for Italy

Those rhythmic tears that don't burn where they fall,—

“Juliet of nations, can you die like we do?

And was the violet crown that adorned your head

So oversized, though new buds made it rough,

It slipped down and across your eyelids, lifeless,

O sweet, beautiful Juliet?” There are plenty of songs like that,

85

Too many complaints like these! Look, instead,

Void at Verona, Juliet’s marble trough:[2]

As empty as that is, are all images

Men place a barrier between themselves and real wrongdoing,

To feel the heaviness of compassion, face the pressure

Of conscience,—since it’s easier to gaze long

On sorrowful masks and gloomy figures

Than on real, living, vulnerable beings crushed by the powerful.

For me, standing in Italy today

Where more talented poets stood and sang before,

I kiss their footprints, yet their words contradict.

I can only think with hope on this shore.

Of golden Arno as it flows away

Through the heart of Florence under her four bridges:

Bent bridges, looking like they're about to snap like bows,

And shake while the swift undertow

Shoots through and slices the marble as it passes,

And builds up palace walls on both sides,

And the cornice foams out in shining lines,

With doors and windows charmingly increased,

And terrace sweeps, and observers of everything,

By whom if a flower or a handkerchief was thrown out

From any lattice there, the same would drop.

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Into the river below, no doubt,

It moves so close and quickly between the walls.

How beautiful! The mountains from outside

In silence, listen for the next word spoken.

What will people say here, where Giotto laid down

His bell tower like an unbothered

Fine question Heavenward, about the things given

A noble people who are deeply troubled

In action, stay fearless in your ambitions?

What will God say? Michel’s Night and Day

And Dawn and Twilight wait in marble disdain[3]

Like dogs on a pile of garbage, lounging on dirt

From where the Medicean stamp has faded,

The final ending of all such control

By all these means, and freeing the unborn

In Florence and the wider world beyond Florence.

Three hundred years his patient statues have waited

In that little chapel of dim Saint Lawrence:

Day's eyes are bright and full of passion.

Over his shoulder, and will show disgust

On darkness and with level gazes, face fate,

87

When they were finally free from that marble coating of theirs;

The Night has wild dreams while she sleeps, the Dawn

Is haggard like the sleepless, Twilight wears

A kind of horror; as the veil is pulled back

’Twixt the artist’s soul and works had left them heirs

Of unspoken thoughts that wouldn’t back down or grovel,

Of anger and contempt, of hope and love:

For he placed it there for a reason.

The noble Urbino on the seat above

With a constant shadow on his face,

While the slow dawns and twilights disapprove

The ashes of his long-extinct race

Which will never again weigh down the feet of people.

I truly believe, divine Angelo,

That winter hour in Via Larga, when

They asked you to build a statue out of snow[4]

And just like that, your art is amazing again

Dissolved under the warm Italian sun,

Thine eyes, dilated with the plastic passion,

Thawing too in drops of hurt masculinity, since,

To mock both your talent and anger,

Laughed at the palace window, the new prince—

(“Aha! this genius needs for uplift,

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When everything is said and done, no matter how much the proud may flinch,

A small marble from our royal mines!”)

I truly believe you laughed too.

For the whole sad world and for your Florentines,

After those few tears, which were just a couple!

That as, under the sun, the huge white lines

Of your snow statue trembled and pulled back,—

The head, standing tall like Jove’s, being paralyzed first,

The eyelids drooped, the thick brow went vacant,

The right hand, raised but now seeming cursed,

Dropt, a simple snowball, (until the people sank

Their voices, though a louder laugh erupted

From the royal window)—you could proudly thank

God and the prince for promise and sign,

And I honestly think, laugh back,

Your eyes cleared by tears of righteous anger

To misread a prophecy,

And assess what a truly great person's legacy is.

Against a random duke's offspring.

I think your soul said then, “I do not need

A principality and its quarries, after all;

For if I write, paint, or carve a word, truly,

On a book, a board, dust, the floor, or the wall,

The same is true of God, who pays attention.

That not a letter of the meaning falls

Or before it touches and teaches the deep heart of His world,

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Outlasting, therefore, all of you, sir!

So hold on to your stone, I beg you, for your side,

To cover up your grave and refer

The right titles; I live for my art.

The thought I put into this snow shall move

This staring crowd when their look is finished;

And the tradition of what you do and what I do,

When all the snow melts in the sun,

Shall collect, for future generations, a sign

Of what is the true principality,—yeah, and none

“Only the drunk with wine will laugh that day.”

Amen, great Angelo! The day is here.

If many don't laugh at it, should we cry?

Much more we shouldn't, let's be clear.

Through poets writing sonnets in their sleep

And old-school folks whispering about outdated ideas across the country

And sketchers praising the piles of ruined towns,—

Through all that sleepy murmur of voices smooth,

The hopeful bird sings cheerfully from the thicket,

The hopeful child, leaping to embrace his growth,

Sings with open eyes for the sake of freedom’s sweetness:

And I, a singer since my youth,

Prefer to sing with those who are awake,

With birds, with babies, with guys who won’t be afraid

The baptism of the holy morning dew,

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(And many of those who are awake now are here,

Complete in their anointed manhood, who

Will dare a lot and persevere even more,

Than join those old, faint voices with my own.

And let out a safe sigh for Italy

Cooped up in music between an oh and ah,—

Nay, hand in hand with that young child, will I

Go sing instead, “Bella libertà,”

Than, with those poets, sing softly to the dead or shout

“If you were more beautiful, Italy!”

“Less miserable if less beautiful.” Maybe a truth

Is so far clear in this, that Italy,

Long held back by the burdens of her youth

Against her age’s vibrant energy,

Sits quietly on her graves, without any mercy from death.

But also without life's bold energy.

“Now tell us, what is Italy?” men ask:

And others respond, “Virgil, Cicero,

Catullus, Caesar.” What else? to challenge

The memory closer—“Why, Boccaccio,