First time he kissed me, he but only kissed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,'
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, 'My love, my own.'

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(England 1806 – Italy 1861)
photo by Google

When we met first and loved, I did not build by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

When we met first and loved, I did not build

Upon the event with marble. Could it mean
To last, a love set pendulous between
Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled,
Distrusting every light that seemed to gild
The onward path, and feared to overlean
A finger even. And, though I have grown serene
And strong since then, I think that God has willed
A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . .
Lest these enclasped hands should never hold,
This mutual kiss drop down between us both
As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold.
And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath,
Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(England 1806 – Italy 1861)

Indeed this very love which is my boast by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,—

This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,—
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(England 1806 – Italy 1861)

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed

And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,

Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light

Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:

And love is fire. And when I say at need

I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee—in thy sight

I stand transfigured, glorified aright,

With conscience of the new rays that proceed

Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low

In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures

Who love God, God accepts while loving so.

And what I feel, across the inferior features

Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show

How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(England 1806 – Italy 1861)

Sonetos Portugueses III: Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Parte:  não te separas! Que jamais

Sairei de tua sombra. Por distante  

Que te vás, em meu peito, a cada instante 

Juntos dois corações batem iguais. 

Não ficarei mais só. Nem nunca mais 

Dona de mim, a mão, quando a levante
Deixará de sentir o toque amante
Da tua, — ao que fugi. Parte: não sais!

Como o vinho, que às uvas donde flui 

Deve saber, é quanto faço e quanto 

Sonho, que assim também todo te inclui 

A ti, amor! minha outra vida, pois 

Quando oro a Deus, teu nome ele ouve e o pranto 

Em meus olhos são lágrimas de dois.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
(England 1806 - Italy 1861)
photo by Google

Como te amo? : Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Como te amo? Deixa-me contar de quantas maneiras.
Amo-te até ao mais fundo, ao mais amplo e ao
mais alto que a minha vida pode alcançar
buscando, para além do visível os limites do
Ser e da Graça ideal.
Amo-te até às mais ínfimas necessidades de
todos os dias à luz do sol e à luz das velas.
Amo-te com liberdade, enquanto os homens
lutam pela justiça;
Amo-te com pureza, enquanto se afastam da lisonja.
Amo-te com a paixão das minhas velhas mágoas
e com a fé da minha infância.
Amo-te com um amor que me parecia perdido
quando perdi os meus santos – amo-te com
o fôlego, os sorrisos, as lágrimas de toda a
minha vida! – e, se Deus quiser,
amar-te-ei melhor depois da morte.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(England 1806-1861)

As cartas dele: Elizabeth Barrett Browning

As cartas dele! Papel morto e frio…

Parecem hoje estremecer, no entanto

e tomar vida, e palpitar, enquanto

com as trémulas mãos lhes solto o fio.

Esta lembra um encontro fugidio;

esta uma coisa simples: o encanto

dum aperto de mão; mas diz-me tanto

que um dia todo, ao lê-la, choro e rio.

Esta me escreve: « Adoro-te, querida»

e caí, deslumbrada, a soluçar

como se fosse o fim da minha vida!

Mas esta… A tua fé, no próprio altar,

Viste, ó Amor, vilmente escarnecida,

se o que esta diz eu devo acreditar.

Elizabeth Barret Browning

(England 1809-1861)
photo by Google