608. Sonnets from the Portuguese XXXI

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806—1861)

  THOU comest! all is said without a word.

  I sit beneath thy looks as children do

  In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through

  Their happy eyelids from an unaverred

  Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred

  In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue

  The sin most, but the occasion—that we two

  Should for a moment stand unministered

  By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,

  Thou dovelike help! and, when my fears would rise,

  With thy broad heart serenely interpose:

  Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies

  These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,

  Like callow birds left desert to the skies.