SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

SONNET XII

Indeed, this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost, . . .
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst 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 good thing of my own.
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,--
And that I love (O soul, I must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.


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