Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXIII

Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?And would the sun for thee more coldly shineBecause of grave-damps falling round my head?I marvelled, my Belovèd, when I readThy thought so in the letter. I am thine-But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wineWhile my hands tremble? Then my soul, insteadOf 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 exchangeMy near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!