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Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning |
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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. |
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| (5) |
I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use |
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| (10) |
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. |
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My Last Duchess by Robert Browning FERRARA |
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That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's1 hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. |
1 Brother Pandolf, an imaginary painter | |
| (5) |
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design: for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by |
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| (10) |
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst2, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot |
2 dared |
| (15) |
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff |
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| (20) |
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. |
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| (25) |
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each |
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| (30) |
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame |
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| (35) |
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let |
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| (40) |
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth3, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping: and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without |
3 in truth |
| (45) |
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence |
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| (50) |
Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune4, though, |
4 the god of the sea in Roman mythology |
| (55) |
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck5 cast in bronze for me! |
5 imaginary Austrian sculptor |
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Dover Beach by Mathew Arnold |
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The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits1; on the French coast, the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, |
1 Straits of Dover, between England and France | |
| (5) |
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar |
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| (10) |
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand2, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. |
2 shore |
| (15) |
Sophocles3 long ago Heard it on the Aegean4, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, |
3 Greek tragic dramatist 4 arm of the Mediterranean Sea between Greece and Turkey |
| (20) |
Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear |
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| (25) |
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles5 of the world. Ah, love, let us be true |
5 beaches covered with large, coarse, water-worn gravel |
| (30) |
To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; |
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| (35) |
And we are here as on a darkling6 plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. |
6 in the dark |