ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

68 1. Gritf

T TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair,

Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God's throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness

In souls as countries lieth silent-bare

Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death

Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.

Touch it ; the marble eyelids are not wet : If it could weep, it could arise and go.

Sonnets from the ^Portuguese

682. i

T THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-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, 4 Guess now who holds thee ? ' * Death/ I said. But there

The silver answer rang { Not Death, but Love.'

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