597. Sonnets from the Portuguese XX

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806—1861)

  BELOVÈD, my Belovèd, when I think

  That thou wast in the world a year ago,

  What time I sat alone here in the snow

  And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink

  No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,

  Went counting all my chains as if that so

  They never could fall off at any blow

  Struck by thy possible hand,—why, thus I drink

  Of life’s great cup of wonder! Wonderful,

  Never to feel thee thrill the day or night

  With personal act or speech,—nor ever cull

  Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white

  Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,

  Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight.