583. Sonnets from the Portuguese VI

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806—1861)

  GO from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

  Hence forward in thy shadow. Nevermore

  Alone upon the threshold of my door

  Of individual life, I shall command

  The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

  Serenely in the sunshine as before,

  Without the sense of that which I forbore—

  Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

  Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

  With pulses that beat double. What I do

  And what I dream include thee, as the wine

  Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

  God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

  And sees within my eyes the tears of two.