Sonnets from the Portuguese

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G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1902 - Всего страниц: 98

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Пользовательский отзыв  - whitewavedarling - LibraryThing

There's no doubt that Browning's sonnets stand out above many of the poems here, but this small edition does hold together as a smooth and varied collection of her works. For a reader who doesn't need ... Читать весь отзыв

LibraryThing Review

Пользовательский отзыв  - LeHack - LibraryThing

Elizabeth Barrett Brownings love poems to her husband. He called her his "Portuguese". "How do I love thee?" is one of the most beautiful love poems of all time. Читать весь отзыв

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Стр. xliii - 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's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost...
Стр. xiv - IF thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say " I love her for her smile — her look — her way Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day...
Стр. vi - 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 forebore— Thy touch upon the palm.
Стр. xvii - 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 Sa'd memory, with thy songs to...
Стр. xxxviii - 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,
Стр. xviii - 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
Стр. xxi - 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 nore — thou lovest!
Стр. ix - 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 those infrequent smiles which fail to live For all thy adjurations? 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 Venice-glass,...
Стр. xxviii - 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...
Стр. xlii - 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 unallied To angels in thy soul ! 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 dews impearled. I seek no copy now of life's first half: Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future's...

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