Sonnets from Portuguese
		
		XXII

		When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
		Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
		Until the lengthening wings break into fire
		At either curved point,--what bitter wrong
		Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
		Be here contented?  Think. In mounting higher,
		The angels would press on us and aspire
		To drop some golden orb of perfect song
		Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
		Rather on earth, Beloved,--where the unfit
		Contrarious moods of men recoil away
		And isolate pure spirits, and permit
		A place to stand and love in for a day,
		With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.


		XLIII

		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.
		I love thee to the level of everyday's
		Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
		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
		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.


		Grief

		I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
		That only men incredulous of despair,
		Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
		Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
		Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
		In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
		Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
		Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
		Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death--
		Most like a monumental statue set
		In everlasting watch and moveless woe
		Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
		Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
		If it could weep, it could arise and go.