SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

SONNET XXVII

My own Beloved, who has lifted me
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,
And in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully
Shines out again, as all the angels see,
Before thy saving kiss!  My own, my own,
Who camest to me when the world was gone,
And I who looked for only God, found thee!
I find thee:  I am safe, and strong, and glad.
As one who stands in dewless asphodel
Looks backward on the tedious time he had
In the upper life . . . so I, with bosom-swell,
Make witness here between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well. 

 


I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII | XIX | XX | XXI | XXII | XXIII | XXIV | XXV | XXVI | XXVII | XXVIII | XXIX | XXX | XXXI | XXXII | XXXIII | XXXIV | XXXV | XXXVI | XXXVII | XXXVIII | XXXIX | XL | XLI | XLII | XLIII | XLIV |
Site