 Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 1. I thought once, healthyocratis had sung of the sweet years, the dear and wished-four years, who each one in a gracious hand appears to bear a gift for mortals, old or young. And as I mused it in his antique tongue I saw in gradual vision through my tears, the sweet sad years, the melancholy years, those of my own life, who by turns had flung a shadow across me. Straightway I was wear so weeping how a mystic shape did move behind me and drew me backward by the hair, and a voice said in mastery while I strove, Guess now who holds thee? Death, I said, but there the silver answer rang, not death, but love. End of Sonnet One. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 2. But only three in all God's universe have heard this word thou hast said, himself beside thee speaking and me listening, and replied one of us, that was God, and laid the curse so darkly on my eyelids as to immerse my sight from seeing thee, that if I had died the death weights placed there would have signified less absolute exclusion. Nay is worse from God than from all others, O my friend. Men could not part us with their worldly jars, nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend. Our hands would touch for all the mountain bars, and heaven being rolled between us at the end, we should but vow the faster for the stars. End of Sonnet Two. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 3. Unlike are we, unlike, O princely heart, unlike our uses and our destinies, our ministering two angels look surprised on one another as they strike a thwart their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art a guest for queens to social pageantries with gauges from a hundred brighter eyes than tears even can make mine, to play thy part of chief musician. What hast thou to do with looking from the lattice-lights at me a poor, tired, wandering singer singing through the dark and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head, on mine the dew, and death must dig the level where these agree. End of Sonnet Three. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 4. Thou hast thy calling to some palace floor most gracious singer of high poems, where the dancers will break footing, from the care of watching up thy pregnant lips for more, and thus thou lift this house's latch too poor for hand of thine, and canst thou think and bear to let thy music drop here unaware in folds of golden fullness at my door? Look up, and see the casement broken in, the bats and owlets builders in the roof. My cricket chirps against thine mandolin. Hush! call no echo up in further proof of desolation. There's a voice within that weeps, as thou must sing. Alone, aloof. End of Sonnet Four. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 5. I lift my heavy heart up solemnly, as once Electra her sepulchral urn, and look looking in thine eyes I overturn the ashes at thy feet. Behold, and see what a great heap of grief lay hidden me, and how the red wild sparkles dimly burn through the ashen greyness, if thy foot in scorn could tread them out to darkness utterly it might be well perhaps. But if instead thou wait beside me for the wind to blow the grey dust up, those laurels on thine head, O my beloved, will not shed thee so, that none of all the fires shall scorch and shred the hair beneath. Stand further off, then. Go! End of Sonnet Five. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 6. Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore alone upon the threshold of my door of individual life I shall command the uses of my soul, nor lift my hand serenely in the sunshine as before, without the sense of that which I forbore, thy touch upon the palm. The widest land doom takes to part us leaves thy heart in mine with pulses that beat double. What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes, and when I sue God for myself, he hears that name of thine, and sees within my eyes the tears of two. End of Sonnet Six. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 7. The face of all the world is changed, I think. Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul move still, oh, still beside me, as they stole betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, was caught up into love, and taught the whole of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism I am feigned to drink, and praise its sweetness sweet with deaneer. The names of country heaven are changed away for where thou art, or shalt be, there or here. And this, this lute and song loved yesterday, the singing angels know, are only dear because thy name moves right in what they say. End of Sonnet Seven. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 8. What can I give thee back, O liberal and princely giver, who hast brought the gold and purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, and laid them on the outside of the wall for such as I, to take or leave with all in unexpected larges? Am I cold? Ungrateful? But for these most manifold high gifts I render nothing back at all. Not so, not cold, but very poor instead. As God who knows, for frequent tears have run the colours from my life, and left so dead and palest stuff it were not fitly done to give the same as pillow to thy head. Go further, let it serve to trample on. End of Sonnet Eight. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 9. Can it be right to give what I can give? To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears as salt as mine, and hear the sighing years re-sighing on my lips renunciative through these infrequent smiles which fail to live for all thy adorations. O my fears that this can scarce be right. We are not peers so to be lovers, and I own and grieve that givers of such gifts as mine are must be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas! I will not soil thy purple with my dust, nor breathe my poison on thy venous glass, nor give thee any love, which were unjust. Beloved, I only love thee. Let it pass. End of Sonnet Nine. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 10. Yet love, mere love, is beautiful indeed, and worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright. Let temple burn or flax. An equal light leaps in the flame from cedar plank or weed. And love is fire. And when I say at need, I love thee. Mark, I love thee. In thy sight I stand transfigured. Glorified aright, with conscience of the new rays that proceed out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low in love when love, the lowest, meanest creatures who love God, God accepts while loving so. And what I feel, across the inferior features of what I am, doth flash itself, and show how that great work of love enhances natures. End of Sonnet Ten. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 11. And therefore, if to love can be desert, I am not at all unworthy. Cheeks as pale as these you see, and trembling knees that fail to bear the burden of a heavy heart, this weary minstrel life that once was girt to climb Aeornus, and can scarce avail to pipe now against the valley nightingale of melancholy music. Why advert to these things? Oh, beloved, it is plain I am not of thy worth nor for thy place, and yet because I love thee, I obtain from that same love this vindicating grace, to live on still in love, and yet in vain, to bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face. End of Sonnet Eleven. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 12. Indeed, this very love which is my boast, and which, when rising up from breast to brow doth crown me with a ruby large enough to draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost, this love even, all my worth to the uttermost, I should not love with all, unless that thou had set me an example, shown me how, when first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed, and love called love. And thus I cannot speak of love even as a good thing of my own. Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, had placed it by thee on a golden throne, and that I love, O soul, we must be meek, is by thee only, whom I love alone. End of Sonnet Twelve. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 13. And wilt thou have me fashion into speech the love I bear thee, finding words enough and hold the torch out while the winds are rough between our faces to cast light on each? I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach my hand to hold my spirit so far off from myself, me that I should bring thee proof in words of love hid in me out of reach. Nay, let the silence of my womanhood commend my woman love to thy belief, seeing that I stand on one, however wooed, and rend the garment of my life, in brief, by a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude, lest one touch of this heart convey its grief. End of Sonnet Thirteen. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 14. If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only. Do not say, I speak for her smile, her look, her way of speaking gently, for a trick of thought that falls in well with mine, and certis brought a sense of pleasant ease on such a day. For these things in themselves, beloved, may be changed, or change for thee, and love so wrought may be unwrought so. Neither love me for thine own dear pitties, wiping my cheeks dry. A creature might forget to weep who bore thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. But love me for love's sake, that evermore thou mayest love on, through love's eternity. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 15. Accus me not, beseech thee, that I wear too calm and sad a face in front of thine, for we too look two ways, and cannot shine with the same sunlight on our brow and hair. On me thou lookest, with no doubting care, as on a bee shut in a crystalline, since sorrow hath shut me safe in love's divine, and to spread wing and fly in the outer air were most impossible failure, if I strove to fail so. But I look on thee, on thee, beholding, besides love, the end of love, hearing oblivion beyond memory, as one who sits and gazes from above, over the rivers to the bitter sea. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 16. And yet, because thou overcomest so, because thou art more noble and like a king, thou canst prevail against my fears, and fling thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow too close against thine heart, henceforth, to know how it shook when alone. Why, conquering may prove as lordly and complete a thing in lifting upward as in crushing low, and as a vanquished soldier yields his sword to one who lifts him from the bloody earth, even so, beloved, I at last record here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth, I rise above a basement, at the word, make thy love larger, to enlarge my worth. 16. This recording is in the public domain. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari. 17. My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes God set between his after and before, and strike up and strike off the general roar of the rushing worlds a melody that floats in a serene air purely. Antidotes of medicated music answering for mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour from thence into their ears. God's will devotes thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine. How, dearest, wilt thou have me for most use, a hope to sing by gladly, or a fine sad memory with thy songs to interfuse, a shade in which to sing of palm or pine, a grave on which to rest from singing. 18. I never gave a lock of hair away to a man, dearest, except this to thee, which now upon my fingers, thoughtfully, I ring out to the full brown length, and say, take it. My day of youth went yesterday, my hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, nor plant I it from rose or myrtle tree as girls do any more. It only may now shade on two pale cheeks, and I will never go astray from that and any other. no longer bounds to my foot's glee, nor planty it from rose or myrtle-tree as girls do any more. It only may now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, taut drooping from the head that hangs aside through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral sheers would take this first. But love is justified. Take it thou, finding pure from all those years the kiss my mother left here when she died. End of SONNET 18. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 19. The soul's realto hath its merchandise. I barter curl for curl upon that mart, and from my poet's forehead to my heart. Receive this lock which outweighs arguses. As purpley black, as erst to Pindar's eyes the dim perpourial tresses gloomed at thwart the nine white muse-brows. For this counterpart, the bay crown's shade, beloved, I surmise, still lingers on thy curl, it is so black. Thus with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath I tie the shadows safe from gliding back, and lay the gift where nothing hindereth, here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack no natural heat till mine grows cold in death. End of SONNET 19. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 20. My Beloved. When I think that thou wasst in the world a year ago, what time I sat alone, here in the snow, and saw no footprint, heard the silence sink no moment at thy voice, but link by link went counting all my chains, as if that so they never could fall off at any blow struck by thy possible hand. Why, thus I drink of life's great cup of wonder. Wonderful never to feel thee thrill the day or night with personal act or speech, nor ever cull some prescience of thee with the blossoms white thou sawest growing. Atheists are as dull, who cannot guess God's presence out of sight. End of SONNET 20. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 21. Say over again, and yet once over again that thou dost love me. Though the word repeated should seem a cuckoo song, as thou dost treat it, remember, never to the hill or plain, valley and wood, without her cuckoo strain comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted by a doubtful spirit voice, in that doubt's pain cry, Speak once more, thou lovest. Who can fear too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll? Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year. Say thou dost love me, love me, love me, told the silver itterance, only, minding, dear, to love me also in silence with thy soul. End of SONNET 21. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 22. In our two souls stand up erect and strong, face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, until the lengthening wings break into fire at either curved point. What bitter wrong can the earth do to us that we should not long be here contented? 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, on earth, beloved, where the unfit, contrarious moods of men recoil away and isolate pure spirits, and permit a place to stand and love in for a day, with darkness and the death-hour rounding it. End of SONNET 22. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 23. 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 gravedamps falling round my head? I marveled my beloved when I read thy thoughts so in the letter. I am thine, but so much to thee. Can I pour thy wine while my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. And love me, love. Look on me, breathe on me, as brighter ladies do not count it strange for love to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange my near-sweet view of heaven for earth with thee. End of SONNET 23. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 24. Let the world's sharpness, like a clasping knife, shut in upon itself, and do no harm in this close hand of love, now soft and warm, and let us hear no sound of human strife after the click of the shutting. Life to life, I lean upon thee, dear, without alarm, and feel as safe as guarded by a charm against the stab of worldlings, who, if rife, are weak to injure. Very whitely still the lilies of our lives may reassure their blossoms from their roots, accessible alone to heavenly do's that drop not fewer, growing straight out of man's reach on the hill. God only, who made us rich, can make us poor. End of SONNET 24. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 25. A heavy heart, beloved, have I borne from year to year, until I saw thy face. And sorrow after sorrow took the place of all those natural joys as lightly worn as stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn by a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes a pace were changed to long despairs, till God's own grace could scarcely lift above the world forlorn my heavy heart. Then, thou didst bid me bring, and let it drop a down thy calmly great deep being. Fast it sinketh, as a thing which its own nature does precipitate, while thine doth close above it, mediating betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate. End of SONNET 25. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 26. I lived with visions for my company instead of men and women, years ago, and found them gentlemates, nor thought to know a sweeter music than they played to me. But soon their trailing purple was not free of this world's dust. Their loots did silent grow, and I myself grew faint and blind below their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst come, to be, beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts, their songs, their splendours, better yet the same as river water hallowed into fonts, met in thee, and from out thee overcame my soul with satisfaction of all wants, because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame. End of SONNET 26. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 27. My own beloved, who has lifted me from this drear flat of earth where I was thrown, and, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown a life-breath, till the forehead, hopefully, shines out again as all the angels see before thy saving kiss. My own, my own, who came as to me when the world was gone, and I who looked only for God, found thee. I find thee. I am safe and strong and glad as one who stands in douless asphodel, looks backward on the tedious time he had in the upper life, so I, with bosom swell, make witness here between the good and bad that love as strong as death, retrieves as well. End of SONNET 27. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 28. My letters, all dead paper, mute and white, and yet they seem alive and quivering against my tremulous hands which loose the string and let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, he wished to have me in his sight once as a friend. This fixed a day in spring to come and touch my hand, a simple thing, yet I wept for it. This, the paper's light, said, Dear, I love thee, and I sank and quailed as if God's future thundered on my past. This said I am thine, and so its ink has paled with lying at my heart that beat too fast, and this, oh, love, thy words have ill availed if, what this said, I dare repeat at last. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORGIGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferrari 29. I think of thee. My thoughts do twine and bud about thee as wild vines about a tree put out broad leaves, and soon there's not to see except the straggling green which hides the wood. Yet, oh, my palm tree, be it understood, I will not have my thoughts instead of thee who art dearer, better. Rather, instantly renew thy presence, as a strong tree should rustle thy boughs, and set thy trunk all there, and let these bands of greenery which in sphere thee drop heavily down, burst, shattered everywhere. Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee, and breathe within thy shadow a new air, I do not think of thee. I am too near thee. END OF SONNET 29. This recording is in the public domain. SONNET 30. I see thine image through my tears to-night, and yet today I saw thee smiling. How refer the cause? Beloved, is it thou or I who makes me sad? The acolyte amid the chanted joy and thankful rite may so fall flat, with pale insensate brow on me altar stair. I hear thy voice and vow, perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight, as he in his swooning ears the choirs amen. Beloved, dost thou love? Or did I see all the glory as I dreamed, and fainted when two vehement light dilated my ideal for my soul's eyes? Will that light come again, as now these tears come, falling hot and real? END OF SONNET 30. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 31. Thou comest. All is said without a word. I sit beneath thy looks, as children do in the noon sun, with souls that tremble through their happy eyelids from an unevered yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred in that last out, and yet I cannot rue the sin most but the occasion that we too should for a moment stand unministered by a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close, thou dove-like help. And when my fears would rise, with thy broad heart serenely interpose, brood down with thy divine sufficiencies these thoughts which tremble when bereft of those, like callow birds left desert to the skies. END OF SONNET 31. This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 32. The first time that the sun rose on thine oath to love me, I looked forward to the moon to slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon and quickly tied to make a lasting truth. Quick loving hearts I thought may quickly loathe, and looking on myself, I seemed not one for such man's love. More like an out-of-tune, mourn vile, a good singer would be wroth to spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste, is laid down at the first ill-sounding note. I did not wrong myself so, but I placed a wrong on thee, for perfect strains may float neath master-hands from instruments defaced, and great souls at one stroke may do and do't. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 33. Yes, call me by my pet name. Let me hear the name I used to run at, when a child from innocent play, and leave the cow-slips plied to glance up in some face that proved me dear with the look of its eyes. I miss the clear, fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled into the music of heaven's undefiled, call me no longer. Silence on the beer, while I call God. Call God, so let thy mouth be heir to those who are now ex-animate. Gather the north flowers to complete the south, and catch the early love up in the late. Yes, call me by that name. And I, in truth, with the same heart, will answer and not wait. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 34. With the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee, as those, when thou shalt call me by my name. Lo, the vain promise is the same, the same, perplexed and ruffled by life's energy. When called before, I told how hastily I dropped my flowers or break off from a game, to run and answer with the smile that came at play last moment, and went on with me through my obedience. When I answer now, I drop a grave thought, break from solitude. Yet still my heart goes to thee. Ponder how, not as to a single good, but all my good. May thy hand on it best one, and allow that no child's foot could run fast as this blood. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 35. 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. End of SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 36. When we met first, and loved, I did not build upon the event with marble. Could it mean to last? A love set pendulous between sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled, distrusting every light that seemed to gild the onward path, and feared to overlean a finger even. And though I have grown serene and strong since then, I think that God has willed a still renewable fear. O love! O troth! Lest these enclasped hands should never hold, his mutual kiss dropped down between us both as an unowned thing, once the lips being cold. And love be false, if he, to keep one's oath, must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold. End of SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 37. PARTEN. Oh, pardon, that my soul should make of all that strong divineness which I know for thine and thee, an image only so formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break. It is that distant years which did not take thy sovereignty, recoiling with a blow, but forced my swimming brain to undergo their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake thy purity of likeness, and distort thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit. As if a shipwrecked pagan, safe in port, his guardian sea-god to commemorate, should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a snort, and vibrant tale within the temple gate. End of SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. 38. First time he kissed me. He but only kissed the fingers of this hand wherewith I write. And ever since it grew more clean and white. Slow to world greetings, quick with its oh list when the angels speak. A ring of anathist I could not wear here plainer to my sight than that first kiss. The second passed in height the first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond mead, that was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, with sanctifying sweetness, did proceed. The third, upon my lips, was folded down in perfect purple state, since when, indeed, I have been proud, and said, my love, my own. End of SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. SONNET 39. Because thou hast the power, and onest the grace, to look through and behind this mask of me, against which years have beat thus blanchingly with their reins, and behold my soul's true face, the dim and weary witness of life's race, because thou hast the faith and love to see, through that same soul's distracting lethargy, the patient angel waiting for a place in the new heavens. Because nor sin, nor woe, nor God's inflection, nor death's neighborhood, nor all which others viewing turn to go, nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed, nothing repels thee. DEAREST, teach me so to pour out gratitude, as thou dost good. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. SONNET 40. Oh yes, they love through all this world of ours. I will not gainsay love, called love for sooth. I have heard love talked in my early youth, and since, not so long back, thought that the flowers then gathered smell still. Musselmans and jurors throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no roof for any weeping. Polyphemes' white tooth slips on the nut, if, after frequent showers, the shell is over smooth, and not so much will turn the thing called love aside to hate, or else to oblivion. But thou art not such a lover, my beloved. Thou canst wait through sorrow and sickness to bring souls to touch, and think it soon when others cry, too late. END OF SONNET 40 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. SONNET 41. I thank all who have loved 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 marks or temples' occupation beyond call. But thou, who, in my voices, sink and fall when the sob took it, thy divinest art's own instrument didst drop down at thy feet to harken what I said between my tears, instruct me how to thank thee, O, 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. END OF SONNET 41 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. SONNET 42. 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 unalied to angels in thysil. 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 doos impurled. I seek no copy now of life's first half. Live here the pages with long musing curled, and write me new my future's epigraph, new angel mine, unhoped for in the world. END OF SONNET 42 This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. SONNET 43. 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 every day'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 faith. I love thee with the 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. END OF SONNET 43 This recording is in the public domain. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGIES by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Red for LibriVox.org by Kirsten Ferreri. SONNET 44. Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers plucked in the garden all 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, these beds and bowers be overgrown with bitter weeds and room and wait thy weeding. Yet here's egglentine, here's ivy, take them as I used to do thy flowers, and keep them where they shall be.