SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE (III)

by: Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

      O from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
      Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
      Alone upon the threshold of my door
      Of individual life I shall command
      The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
      Serenely in the sunshine as before,
      Without the sense of that which I forbore--
      Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
      Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
      With pulses that beat double. What I do
      And what I dream include thee, as the wine
      Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
      God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
      And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

MORE POEMS BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

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