XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."
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 everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a 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.
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
Ballad of a river
Dawn fires the surface into gold,
gold-eyed the herons stilt and stalk.
At silver noon the water hold
Wheeling of a mirrored hawk.
I have not seen water lie so still
As here. Perhaps an otter may
disturb its peace, or white crane till
the green edge wading tall-knee-deep.
In gust of wind, a faint wood hum-
Plucked leaves and broken petals dance,
the wind departs, the wood is dumb,
and floating yellows gather brown.
To think up to a mile ago
this river bounded like a hound,
convulsed and nearly wreaked our boat,
and lies here gentle as a pond!
A rich practical man I'm told
Demanded, why this idleness?
He got no answer and compelled
The river into harness.
Like frightened birds the minutes fled
Pursued by roaring steel and fire
The river slaved and profits grew
To almost overtake desire.
Until, they say, one windy night,
In the deepest vigil of the owl,
The river rose and foaming white,
Descended like a murderer.
At dawn the water shone restored.
The wreakage stood like blasted rocks
Round which the burnished mirror showed
The artistry of a wild brown hawk
-Patrick Fernando
To my Brother, who loves poems
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 everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a 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.
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
Ballad of a river
Dawn fires the surface into gold,
gold-eyed the herons stilt and stalk.
At silver noon the water hold
Wheeling of a mirrored hawk.
I have not seen water lie so still
As here. Perhaps an otter may
disturb its peace, or white crane till
the green edge wading tall-knee-deep.
In gust of wind, a faint wood hum-
Plucked leaves and broken petals dance,
the wind departs, the wood is dumb,
and floating yellows gather brown.
To think up to a mile ago
this river bounded like a hound,
convulsed and nearly wreaked our boat,
and lies here gentle as a pond!
A rich practical man I'm told
Demanded, why this idleness?
He got no answer and compelled
The river into harness.
Like frightened birds the minutes fled
Pursued by roaring steel and fire
The river slaved and profits grew
To almost overtake desire.
Until, they say, one windy night,
In the deepest vigil of the owl,
The river rose and foaming white,
Descended like a murderer.
At dawn the water shone restored.
The wreakage stood like blasted rocks
Round which the burnished mirror showed
The artistry of a wild brown hawk
-Patrick Fernando
To my Brother, who loves poems
