Sonnets From The Portuguese #5 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I had the opportunity to go outside to my father in law’s house in Indiana and sit in his garden, something that has been sorely lacking in my life as of late.  (Thanks, Covid!)

It was beautiful, and I thought “This would be a good place to read a sonnet!”  And it was,  with a little pond full of fish and luscious trees. Very peaceful.  Sadly, his neighbor was cutting grass, and you can hear the hum of it, and in the background you can just hear my wife and mother-in-law chatting.  Not the ideal scenario.

But it was lovely!


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Sonnets From The Portuguese #5

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 Belovëd, will not shield thee so,

That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!;