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Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter.

But... so much to thee?

While my hands tremble?

I am thine

Can I pour thy wine

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!

Thou comest! all is said without a word.

I sit beneath thy looks, as children do

In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred

Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred
In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue

The sin most, but the occasion . . . that we two
Should for a moment stand unministered

By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,
Thou dovelike help! and, when my fears would rise,
With thy broad heart serenely interpose.
Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies
These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,
Like callow birds left desert to the skies.

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss

Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, When I look up, to drop on a new range

Of walls and floors . . . another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change? That's hardest.. If to conquer love, has tried,

To conquer grief, tries more . . . as all things prove; For grief indeed is love and grief beside.

Alas I have grieved so I am hard to love.

Yet love me - wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace
To look through and behind this mask of me,
(Against which years have beat thus blanchingly
With their rains,) and behold my soul's true face,
The dim and weary witness of life's race!-
Because thou hast the faith and love to see,
Through that same soul's distracting lethargy,
The patient angel waiting for a place

...

In the new Heavens! - because nor sin nor woe,
Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighborhood,
Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,
Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed, .
Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so
To pour out gratitude as thou dost, good.
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 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

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

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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.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

FROM "THE EPITHALAMIUM."

OPEN the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honor due,
That cometh in to you.

With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She cometh in, before the Almighty's view:
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience,

When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces:

Bring her up to the high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make;
And let the roaring organs loudly play

The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throats,

The choristers the joyous anthem sing,

That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.
Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain,
Like crimson dyed in grain;

That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,

Forget their service, and about her fly,

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair
The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground
Are governed with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one look to glance awry,

Which may let in a little thought unsound.
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all our band?

Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluia sing.

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

EDMUND SPEnser.

A COMPLAINT.

THERE is a change, - and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,

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