SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

SONNET 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 thine--
But. . . 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! 

 


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