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XXIII
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806 (Kelloe) – 1861 (Florence)
Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head ?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine--
But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love ! look on me--breathe on me !
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee !
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Citation
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"XXIII" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 18 Jan. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/10433/xxiii>.
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