SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
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.