Poems begining by S

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XVII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notesGod set between His After and Before,And strike up and strike off the general roarOf the rushing worlds a melody that floatsIn a serene air purely

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XVI

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And yet, because thou overcomest so,Because thou art more noble and like a king,Thou canst prevail against my fears and flingThy purple round me, till my heart shall growToo close against thine heart henceforth to knowHow it shook when alone

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XV

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wearToo calm and sad a face in front of thine;For we two look two ways, and cannot shineWith the same sunlight on our brow and hair

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XLIV

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowersPlucked in the garden, all the summer through,And winter, and it seemed as if they grewIn this close room, nor missed the sun and showers

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XLIII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XLII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XLI

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,With thanks and love from mine

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XL

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth:I have heard love talked in my early youth,And since, not so long back but that the flowersThen gathered, smell still

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XIX

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandize;I barter curl for curl upon that mart,And from my poet's forehead to my heartReceive this lock which outweighs argosies,-As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyesThe dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwartThe nine white Muse-brows

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XIV

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for noughtExcept for love's sake only

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XIII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And wilt thou have me fashion into speechThe love I bear thee, finding words enough,And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,Between our faces, to cast light on each?-I drop it at thy feet

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Indeed this very love which is my boast,And which, when rising up from breast to brow,Doth crown me with a ruby large enowTo draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,-This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,I should not love withal, unless that thouHadst set me an example, shown me how,When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,And love called love

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XI

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And therefore if to love can be desert,I am not all unworthy

Sonnets from the Portuguese: X

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeedAnd worthy of acceptation

Sonnets from the Portuguese: VIII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

What can I give thee back, O liberalAnd princely giver, who hast brought the goldAnd purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,And laid them on the outside of the wallFor such as I to take or leave withal,In unexpected largesse? am I cold,Ungrateful, that for these most manifoldHigh gifts, I render nothing back at all?Not so; not cold,-but very poor instead

Sonnets from the Portuguese: VII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The face of all the world is changed, I think,Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soulMove still, oh, still, beside me, as they stoleBetwixt me and the dreadful outer brinkOf obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,Was caught up into love, and taught the wholeOf life in a new rhythm

Sonnets from the Portuguese: VI

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Go from me

Sonnets from the Portuguese: IX

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Can it be right to give what I can give?To let thee sit beneath the fall of tearsAs salt as mine, and hear the sighing yearsRe-sighing on my lips renunciativeThrough those infrequent smiles which fail to liveFor all thy adjurations? O my fears,That this can scarce be right! We are not peersSo to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,That givers of such gifts as mine are, mustBe counted with the ungenerous

Sonnets from the Portuguese 43: How do I Love thee?

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways

Sink-we Scento

© Brooks Shirley

"After five years the Thames is to receive no sewage." -- Sir B. Hall.