612. Sonnets from the Portuguese XXXV

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806—1861)

  IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

  And be all to me? Shall I never miss

  Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss

  That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,

  When I look up, to drop on a new range

  Of walls and floors, another home than this?

  Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is

  Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?

  That’s hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,

  To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;

  For grief indeed is love and grief beside.

  Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.

  Yet love me—wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,

  And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.