Sonnets from the Portuguese and Other Poems
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Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) was an English poet. The daughter of a wealthy family—her father made his fortune as a slave owner in Jamaica, while her mother’s family owned and operated sugar plantations, mills, and ships—Browning eventually became an abolitionist and advocate for child labor laws. Her marriage to the prominent Victorian poet Robert Browning caused the final break between Browning and her family, after which she moved to Italy and lived there with Robert for the rest of her life. She began writing poems at a young age, finding success with the 1844 publication of Poems. Browning went on to be recognized as one of the foremost poets of early Victorian England, influencing such writers as Edgar Allen Poe and Emily Dickinson. She is most famous for her Sonnets from the Portuguese, a collection of 44 love poems published in 1850, and Aurora Leigh, an 1856 epic poem described by leading Victorian critic John Ruskin as the greatest long poem written in the nineteenth century. Browning suffered from numerous illnesses throughout her life, eventually succumbing in Florence at the age of 55.
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Reviews for Sonnets from the Portuguese and Other Poems
4 ratings6 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I must say that I was slow to warm up to the poems and don't think I would have liked them as well without having read the Introduction first. Lovely, very personal. You can really see the path of the love affair between EBB and Robert Browning.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I think that I might have liked these more when I was younger...
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5First book gift I gave to Mike. After 28 years, still sits on his night stand.n yes, he reads it. Occasionally.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Receiving this as a gift on my 18th birthday from my best friend was one of my "Coming of Age" moments. It opened a wonderful world of being able to express all of those emotions that were inundating me, mentally and physically. I can never thank her enough.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Despite a strong recommendation from a dear friend whose taste in books I respect greatly, I resisted reading Victorian English poetry, insisting I would never understand it. My resistance weaned, and I am glad for it. This utterly charming set of poetry is heartfelt and uplifting, and I find myself rooting for their love and for Elizabeth Barrett Browning herself. My only wish was for Elizabeth to have lived longer than her 55 years. But to have loved brilliantly for even only 15 years till a person’s end is still more than anyone can hope for. This set of highly personal poetry, written by Elizabeth throughout her courtship with Robert Browning, which began in 1845, eloped in 1846, was gifted to him in 1849. The uniqueness in their relationship drove this set of sonnets to be particularly celebratory. She was an accomplished poet with published works (early career woman), older than him by 6 years (unusual then), she was age 39 when they met (finding love late in life), she was an invalid (shame, feeling inadequate). He courted her for her and the beauty of her poetry, appreciating her mind and her as a person, which is always the best basis to start any relationship. She had great hesitations, partly due to feeling that she doesn’t measure up and some influence from her family, deeming him to be a gold digger. In the end, their love flourished, and we, the readers, are blessed to have this set of sonnets that remind us what Love is really about – all-encompassing, unconditional, whole-heartedly, with acceptance. ♥Quotes (abbreviated):Sonnet I: Her hope for love, but hope lost, given up.The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,Those of my own life,………“Guess now who holds thee!” --- “Death” I said.But thereThe silver anaswer rang, --- “Not Death, but Love” Sonnet VII: To be in love, surprised, and her world changing on account of it. (It’s such a beautiful new experience for her.)…………, where I, who thought to sink,Was caught up into love,………And this… this lute and song… love yesterday,(The singing angels know) are only dearBecause thy name moves right in what they say.Sonnet VIII: Feeling inadequate in the relationship. (To me, this is such a classic amongst even solid relationships, doubting oneself, constantly wondering if you measure up, despite how much love is flowing both ways.)What can I give thee back, O liberalAnd princely giver, who hast brought the gold and purple of thine heart…………… am I cold,Ungrateful, that for these most manifoldHigh gifts, I render nothing back at all?No so; not cold, ---- but very poor instead.Sonnet X: Burning with Love. She is enthralled, enraptured, consumed with love. Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeedAnd worthy of acceptation…………And love is fire. And when I say at needI love thee… mark!... I love thee – in thy sightI stand transfigured…………Sonnet XIV: She asked to be loved, simply for love’s sake and not for anything that may change or out of pity. (I find this to be such a logical and basic thought that doesn’t seem to be considered much.) If thou must love me, let it be for noughtExcept for love’s sake only. Do not say“I love her for her smile ---her look---her wayOf speaking gently,………”For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee,………………….Neither love me forThine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,---………But love me for love’s sake, that evermoreThou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.Sonnet XX: She has doubts and wants reassurance. (I am guilty of requiring reassurance. Perhaps guilty is too strong a word. I simply believe that every relationship should have continued reassurance. No man or woman should be made to assume they are loved while drudging through the stress of daily life, and some times, shamed for wanting assurance. It should be freely given, via a gentle touch, a kind smile, a twinkle in your eyes.) Say over again, and yet once over again,That thou dost love me…………Beloved, I, amid the darkness greetedBy a doubtful spirit – voice, in that doubt’s painCry, “Speak once more---thou lovest!”………Say thou dost love me, love me, love me---tollThe silver iterance!---only minding, Dear,To love me also in silence with thy soul.Sonnet XXXVIII: She writes of the first kiss, the second kiss, the third kiss. (The beauty of increasing passion between two lovers…)First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;………………….The second passed in heightThe frist, and sought the forehead, and half missed,Half falling on the hair…………The third upon my lips was folded downIn perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,I have been proud and said, “My love, my own.”Sonnet XXXIX, in its entirety: To be accepted for who she is, she expresses gratitude. (This is easily the most powerful sonnet, despite the popularity of ‘how do I love thee, let me count the ways’. There is not a single person who does not desire to be accepted for who he/she is. To have found that lover/mate/partner in life is a treasure that ought to be celebrated.)Because thou hast the power and own’st the graceTo look through and behind this mask of me,(Against which, years have beat thus blanchinglyWith 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 placeIn the new Heavens, - because nor sin nor woe,Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighborhood,Nor all which other’s viewing, turn to go,Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed, -Nothing repels thee … Dearest, teach me soTo pour gratitude, as thou dost, good!Sonnet XLII: She starts a new future, gladly. (Such a powerful conviction and will to know this is what she wants, especially in light that her father has disowned her and her family has abandoned her due to her marriage.) My future will not copy fair my past---I wrote that once; and thinking at my sideMy ministering life………I seek no copy now of life’s first half:Leave here the pages with long musing curled,And write me new my future’s epigraph,New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!Sonnet XLIII, in its entirety: The most famous – to have love that is complete, free, pure, passionate, and also enduring even after death.How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I love thee to the level of everyday’sMost 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 useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith 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.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I had not expected this collection of love poems to be so melancholic. Although a degree of self-doubt and uncertainty goes along with any lovers thoughts, the tone here is of such low self-esteem, such self-recrimination that it strikes me that the poet was suffering from depression. But through the darkness, there are sparks of hope, that maybe love will come, will be true and will rescue.In the end, the poet is redeemed and transformed by love, but it seems to have been a close-run thing.There's such beautiful imagery in every poem that it's almost impossible to select one out above the others, but I particularly like Sonnet V:I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,As one Electra her sepulchral urn,And, looking in thine eyes, I overturnThe ashes at thy feet. Behold and seeWhat a great heap of grief lay hid in me,And how the red wild sparkles dimly burnThrough the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scornCould tread them out to darkness utterly,It might be well perhaps. But if insteadThou wait beside me for the wind to blowThe grey dust up,...those laurels on thine head,O my Belovëd, will not shield thee so,That none of all the fires shall scorch and shredThe hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!
Book preview
Sonnets from the Portuguese and Other Poems - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
AND OTHER POEMS
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
A Digireads.com Book
Digireads.com Publishing
Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-2575-3
Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-59674-085-3
This edition copyright © 2012
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CONTENTS
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
OTHER POEMS
A Child Asleep
A Child's Thought Of God
A Curse For A Nation
A Dead Rose
A False Step
A Man's Requirements
A Musical Instrument
A Sea-Side Walk
A Thought For A Lonely Death-Bed
A Valediction
A Woman's Shortcomings
A Year's Spinning
Adequacy
An Apprehension
Bianca Among The Nightingales
Change Upon Change
Cheerfulness Taught By Reason
Comfort
Consolation
De Profundis
Discontent
Exaggeration
Futurity
Grief
How Do I Love Thee?
Insufficiency
Irreparableness
Lord Walter's Wife
Minstrelsy
On A Portrait Of Wordsworth By B. R. Haydon
Pain In Pleasure
Past And Future
Patience Taught By Nature
Perplexed Music
Rosalind's Scroll
Substitution
Tears
The Autumn
The Best Thing in the World
The Cry Of The Children
The Deserted Garden
The Holy Night
The House Of Clouds
The Lady's Yes
The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers
The Look
The Meaning Of The Look
The Poet And The Bird
The Prisoner
The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point
The Seraph and Poet
The Soul's Expression
The Two Sayings
The Weakest Thing
To
To Flush, My Dog
To George Sand: A Desire
To George Sand: A Recognition
Work
Work And Contemplation
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
I
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—
Guess now who holds thee!
—Death,
I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang, Not death, but Love.
II
But only three in all God's universe
Have heard this word thou hast said,—himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us... that was God,... and laid the curse
So darkly on my eyelids, so as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee,—that if I had died,
The death-weights, placed there, would have signified
Less absolute exclusion. Nay
is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.
III
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,—
And Death must dig the level where these agree.
IV
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there's a voice within
That weeps... as thou must sing... alone, aloof.
V
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well perhaps. But if instead
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
The grey dust up,... those laurels on thine head,
O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,
That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!
VI
Go 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.
VII
The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;
And this... this lute and song... loved yesterday,
(The singing angels know) are only dear
Because thy name moves right in what they say.
VIII
What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the