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, Belovèd,-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.

XXIII

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 grave-damps falling round my head? I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read

Thy thought so in the letter. I am thineBut... 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. Then, 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!

XXXV

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.

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,"

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst

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. O beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.

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."

XLI

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 mart's
Or temple's occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's

Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

To hearken what I said between my tears... Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, 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!

XLIII

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 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 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. [1847.] 1850.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I

DANTE

TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise,

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks By Fra Hilario in his diocese,

As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease;

And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers,

DANTE'S "DIVINE COMEDY" Translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

OFT have I seen at some cathedral door
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;

Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.