Selected poems

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)
Biography: https://poets.org/poet/elizabeth-barrett-browning

“The Young Queen” (1837)

This awful responsibility is imposed upon me so suddenly and at so early a period of my life, that I should feel myself utterly oppressed by the burden, were I not sustained by the hope that Divine Providence, which has called me to this work, will give me strength for the performance of it.

The Queen’s Declaration in Council. [Queen Victoria, r. 1837–1901]

THE shroud is yet unspread

To wrap our crowned dead;

His soul hath scarcely hearkened for the thrilling word of doom;

And Death that makes serene

Ev’n brows where crowns have been,[5]

Hath scarcely time to meeten his, for silence of the tomb.

St. Paul’s king-dirging note

The city’s heart hath smote —

The city’s heart is struck with thought more solemn than the tone!

A shadow sweeps apace[10]

Before the nation’s face,

Confusing in a shapeless blot, the sepulchre and throne.

The palace sounds with wail —

The courtly dames are pale —

A widow o’er the purple bows, and weeps its splendour dim:[15]

And we who hold the boon,

A king for freedom won,

Do feel eternity rise up between our thanks and him.

And while all things express

All glory’s nothingness,[20]

A royal maiden treadeth firm where that departed trod!

The deathly scented crown

Weighs her shining ringlets down;

But calm she lifts her trusting face, and calleth upon God.

Her thoughts are deep within her:[25]

No outward pageants win her

From memories that in her soul are rolling wave on wave —

Her palace walls enring

The dust that was a king —

And very cold beneath her feet, she feels her father’s grave.[30]

And One, as fair as she,

Can scarce forgotten be, —

Who clasped a little infant dead, for all a kingdom’s worth!

The mourned, blessed One,

Who views Jehovah’s throne,[35]

Aye smiling to the angels, that she lost a throne on earth.

Perhaps our youthful Queen

Remembers what has been —

Her childhood’s rest by loving heart, and sport on grassy sod —

Alas! can others wear[40]

A mother’s heart for her?

But calm she lifts her trusting face, and calleth upon God.

Yea! call on God, thou maiden

Of spirit nobly laden,

And leave such happy days behind, for happy-making years![45]

A nation looks to thee

For stedfast sympathy:

Make room within they bright clear eyes, for all its gathered tears.

And so the grateful isles

Shall give thee back their smiles,[50]

And as they mother joys in thee, in them shalt thou rejoice;

Rejoice to meekly bow

A somewhat paler brow,

While the King of Kings shall bless thee by the British people’s voice!^[1]

Sonnets from the Portuguese (1850)

Sonnet 1

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for 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,[5]

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 ’ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move[10]

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.”

Sonnet 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—[5]

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[10]

Their blossoms from their roots, accessible

Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;

Growing straight, out of man’s reach, on the hill.

God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

Sonnet 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[5]

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.[10]

This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled

With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

And this … O Love, thy words have ill availed

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

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 everyday’s[5]

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.[10]

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.^[2]