581. Sonnets from the Portuguese IV

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806—1861)

  THOU hast thy calling to some palace-floor,

  Most gracious singer of high poems! where

  The dancers will break footing, from the care

  Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

  And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor

  For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear

  To let thy music drop here unaware

  In folds of golden fulness at my door?

  Look up and see the casement broken in,

  The bats and owlets builders in the roof!

  My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

  Hush, call no echo up in further proof

  Of desolation! there’s a voice within

  That weeps… as thou must sing… alone, aloof.