601. Sonnets from the Portuguese XXIV

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806—1861)

  LET the world’s sharpness, like a clasping knife,

  Shut in upon itself and do no harm

  In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,

  And let us hear no sound of human strife

  After the click of the shutting. Life to life—

  I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,

  And feel as safe as guarded by a charm

  Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife

  Are weak to injure. Very whitely still

  The lilies of our lives may reassure

  Their blossoms from their roots, accessible

  Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer,

  Growing straight, out of man’s reach, on the hill.

  God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.