sonnet 1 

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.' 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

The ancient Greek poet Theocritus had composed a song rejoicing in life’s gift, to young and old, of hope for the future. But as I surveyed my own life I could find no cause for optimism. Instead, a shadow of grief and tears held me fast in melancholia. During this low point of my life I experienced something mystical. Some sort of force, behind me, drew me backward, as if pulling on my hair. The commanding entity asked for my assessment of the event: “Death is calling me,” I judged. But now a comforting voice offered assuagement: “No, not Death – but Love.”

sonnet 2 

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, 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.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

When Robert professed his love for me, a trinity of witnesses heard his words: God, Robert, and myself. However, God’s reply to this offering of love came in the form of blindness, my inability to initially accept that Robert could actually love me. I was afraid that this was too good to be true. This mental darkness for me ensued with such force that even death could not have made me more insensate. However, it is a true principle that, if God says no to what we want, this is much more final than any human refusal. But, God had not said no and, therefore, neither the unkindnesses of men nor barriers imposed by nature could prevent the coming consummation of our love. What Robert and I have together is affirmed by the very heights of God’s creation, is written in the stars. This additional witness to our words of love stands as august portent of destiny and prompts us to seek for each other all the more.

sonnet 3 

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. 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

You and I are somewhat unlike, you know. The differences at times might seem so stark that our guardian angels are taken by a measure of surprise, their wings all aflutter, at the prospect of we two unlikely candidates contemplating union. We have circled in different orbits. I grew up in the nondescript country, have described myself as a “drooping untrained honeysuckle.” I have not seen the world, have never beheld a mountain fortress nor mighty river. But you – you have been summoned by royalty. Kings and queens have sought for your company, have esteemed you highly, their glittering impressed eyes have fawned over you. But my eyes do not glitter, not even when sprinkled with tears. You are like a chief musician, a conductor of a symphony – and what shall you have to do with me, a poor wandering minstrel? What do you possibly see in me? It’s all so anomalous. How can I accept this? Why would a darling of the court, as you are, play the role of a commoner by inviting my plebian companionship? Why would you demean yourself, leaning on a cypress tree, so to speak, peering up at my window, hoping to catch a glimpse through lattice-shades, of one without noble birth? God’s precious anointing holy oil of chrism is on your forehead, but only halfpenny dew on mine. How shall we reconcile these differences? Only Death, I think, will serve as the great leveler.

sonnet 4 

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.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

When you visit royalty in their palaces, with their splendid festivities, even the dancers interrupt themselves, mid-stride, hoping to catch the next pearl of poetry from your oracled mouth. But I do not live in a bejeweled palace, and how will you feel to enter my humble dwelling? A person of your elevated station should consider the disparity. Are you sure this is what you want? There is nothing gilt-edged in my house, my windows are in need of repair, bats and owls have entered and made nests in the attic. Is this decrepitude what you want? You are like one possessing an expensive mandolin, but I can afford only a cricket’s chirping. But maybe I’ve lamented too much. I will hush myself now and say no more of odious comparison. I should apologize. I've been prompted to speak more-than frankly, led by my “still small voice within.” It is a melancholic voice, one that has known sorrow, known it alone, with little love. I think it has been different for you. In my life, I have been weeping, but you have been singing.

sonnet 5 

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
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.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I feel so burdened with grief. I am like Sophocles’ Electra, mournfully overcome, as she bears the urn, what she thought to be, containing the ashes of her beloved brother Orestes. With this same debilitating sorrow, I pour the contents of the urn at your feet, Robert. I ask you to look at these ashes. They represent a heap of mind-numbing tribulation, hidden in my heart. I feel that I've lost you, even from the outset. But, I also see something else in this grey detritus of love long-denied: traces of tiny red coals, still active, still warming; the faint hope, the spectered possibility, of future love. And, yes, your boot would have the power to crush, in a moment, these fading embers; and maybe that would be best. But if, instead, you decided to wait, with me, for the wind to blow the ashes and the red sparkles, up, into the air, then be careful, for the laurels on your head, received from an adoring royalty, will not protect you. You may suffer a scorching; if you purpose to love me, you will know diminishment. The prudent course would be to stand back. Go, protect yourself. Leave me.

sonnet 6 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Hence forward 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.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Deep within, I am torn between two sentiments: part of me wants you to leave – I worry that you would not be happy with me; yet I also feel indissolubly one with you, that my life could never be alone again. I find myself convinced that you are always here, in all of my soul’s activities; even the simplest gesture, to raise my hand in the sunshine, immediately recalls those times when you touched its palm. My spirit witnesses with my heart that we are inseparable, that even if wide geographic distance were to divide, our hearts would not feel the doom of sundering, but would continue to beat in unison. The wellspring of my life, all of my hopes and dreams, center upon, are united with - you, as intimately joined as grapes to wine. My very being is now so utterly bound with yours that, even when I pray, I can do nothing but to address Him, not merely as a self but as two. My tears, God well knows, flow not just from my own eyes but from the joint-life that we are.

sonnet 7 

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.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

The very underpinnings of reality, I perceive, have been altered with your coming. The progression and evolution of my life have forever changed. All things are born anew with the advent of our love; you have recast and recolored my life with a joy simply to be alive. Before, the thoughts of each day were enshrouded with images of death, but now our love has taught me to sing a new song of life, buoyed with the cadence and rhythm of optimism. Before I knew you, I’d resigned myself to accept that my assigned portion would be nothing more than suffering; so convinced was I of this fate that I viewed it all as a kind of holy baptism, a total immersion into God-approved sorrow for my life. I saw no way out of this endless nightmare. But now, wonder of wonders, I hear angels singing, in harmony with the sweet music of my soul… and the common fixtures of my life assume new meaning, even my country and heaven itself… for I now know, have allowed myself to believe, that whatever is, or wherever I shall be, you will be there also, part of what comes next. My eyes are now opened to the fact that whatever I call dear and precious can be judged as such only because you are associated with it. Even our future reward in heaven would be a pale and insipid thing, if you are not there, with me.

sonnet 8 

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 outside of the wall
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so; not cold,—but very poor instead.
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colors from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther! let it serve to trample on.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

How can I offer recompense to you, one who gives so abundantly? You are a princely giver, resplendent with colors of royalty, offering me gold of perfect love. Moreover, you are unassuming in your giving, as you’ve not imposed yourself upon my life but have deferentially laid your gifts “outside the wall.” But a wall is a boundary which might divide two worlds; and I fear that no bridge might span our differences. How can I reach you and respond to your generosity? I might seem ungrateful but this is not true. My inability to offer reciprocity, in equal measure, springs from a poverty, as I cannot match what you are. I am deeply concerned that I could never be a fitting companion for you. God bears witness to this mismatch. I envision you in royal purple, but there is no commending color to adorn me. My tears have rinsed any color from my ashen life. Utter disconsolation haunts my spirit to believe that what I am could never serve as comforting pillow to your being. Earlier, I advised you to leave, and now I must add rejoinder – “go farther from me” and trample on what you think you see in me.

sonnet 9 

Can it be right to give what I can give?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right! We are not peers,
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love--which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I debate with myself, am I wrong to withhold that little which I might offer? I doubt that you would want it. I fear that I would not often smile for you, despite your solemn oaths of allegiance. My only gift is my tears, all that you could look forward to are years of my continual sighing, my lips renouncing the possibility that you could authentically love me. Where is the propriety in such meager gift? You deserve more than this. We are not equals and so how could we be lovers, in any mature sense? Any gift from me, my tears, my sighings, is so insubstantial that it must be counted as something ungenerous. Our disparity is too great, and therefore, with regret, I must once again insist that you leave. I will not soil your royal purple with my commoner status; even my breath is poison to you, the vapors of which would mar your fine Venetian glassware. One such as I has no love to give you. Oh, but wait! – now I have said too much and speak as a fool. None of this is true. The fact of the matter, Beloved, is that I love you, and live only to do so! Please disregard my previous rantings.

sonnet 10 

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee … mark! … I love thee—in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright,
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There’s nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature’s. 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

God is opening my eyes. I’ve not been altogether correct in my reasonings. Love, all love, is a power and a force. All love is beautiful, worthy of acceptance, and I must begin to accept it. Love is a fire in the mind. The ensuing light will glow as brightly though ignited by expensive cedar or by dried weeds. And God begins to reveal that the fire of your devotion might burn as brightly even if inflamed by an imperfect being. I have not always been honest with you, nor with myself, but let me begin now: yes, I do love you. There! I’ve said it. And in this open admission I suddenly feel the warming fire. I perceive it to be a transforming vitality, the alchemy of which might one day draw my spirit higher, to meet you in an elevated state of consciousness. How could it be otherwise? This is God’s way in Nature. All creatures, even the lowest and despised, are sought by divine agency and met by the grace of transfiguring glory. My fears, my dark self-condemnation, have kept me from your attempts to reach me, which, I now know, is not so unlike God’s effort to seek for the unworthy. I am awakening to the possibility of a rejuvenating power. Too long I have judged myself as possessing inferior features, and while this image cannot be cleansed in a moment, I also sense a coming salvation of renewal, an energy which purifies and evolves Nature itself.

sonnet 11

And therefore if to love can be desert,
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale
As these you see, and trembling knees that fail
To bear the burden of a heavy heart,—
This weary minstrel-life that once was girt
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale
A melancholy music,—why advert
To these things? O Beloved, it is plain
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain
From that same love this vindicating grace,
To live on still in love, and yet in vain,—
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

At times I allow myself a flash of acceptance that, possibly, I am not totally unworthy of you. If love can be a blossoming rose in a barren desert, then who am I to deny? It is true, I offer no great beauty; my cheeks do not glow with rose-tinted vitality, my weak knees support only my heavy heart. Once, it was different. In my girlhood, I contemplated taking life by storm, I mused upon victories, like Alexander overcoming Aornus, a must-win conquest for him as defeat would have cut his supply lines. But grit and optimism, for me, died a long time ago; all I do now, far from planning victories, is to fatalistically run-out the clock of life. Most of me has given up hope of ever finding happiness, nor being worthy of it. I’m just a tired vagabond minstrel, singing my songs of melancholia; its music comparing poorly even to the nightingale’s serenade. I am sorry, Robert. Why do I continually dwell upon these negative things? Yes, your station outshines my own, but maybe there is a way forward for us. I can’t explain it but, it could be, the very existence of my love for you becomes its own evidence, brings its own vindicating grace, that it ought to survive. Has there ever been a true love that did not deserve to live? Deep within, I feel this ray of hope even in the midst of my sorrows that this could never work. I bless you, but, at the same time, I renounce you. Do not attempt to analyze this too closely, Beloved, as it will not stand the scrutiny of reason.

sonnet 12 

Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To 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 thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,--
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

My inner being begins to boast that one such as you could love me. Inadvertently, a sense of elation rises from my heart to flush my cheeks with ruby tint. It’s hard for me to hide it now. Others begin to notice that there’s something different about me; they know something is going on with me. My feelings are too effusive now, they burst the bonds of attempts to conceal. As you might suspect, this is all your doing. If not for you, I would not find myself schooled in the ways of burgeoning love. You showed me how. It all began even from that unsuspecting moment when our eyes first met. I didn’t want to admit it then, but, when I first saw you, it was like “love calling to love,” you drew from me a sensibility I didn’t know I had, and feared would never possess. In this, I realize that what I call love is not a creature solely of my own making but exists at your prompting. It’s as if your soul swooped in and snatched the love, faint and weak, lying hidden in my heart and then placed it on a golden throne beside you. And now I too am royalty as I’ve often judged you to be. Truly, this heavenly feeling, I humbly admit, must be credited to what you’ve done to my heart – it’s you, only you.

sonnet 13 

And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
The 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. I cannot teach
My hand to hold my spirit so far off
From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof
In words, of love hid in me out of reach.
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood
Commend my woman-love to thy belief,—
Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,
And rend the garment of my life, in brief,
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Would you have me compose verse to describe what I really feel? Could words ever be equal to this ineffability? I have my doubts. My love is like a burning torch, seeking to illuminate the love on our faces, but a torch’s fire is vulnerable to a blowing wind, and words are susceptible to misinterpretation and inadequate expression. As such, I have my doubts that a torch of verbal expression could truly communicate what I feel, and therefore I drop this torch at your feet – even though I realize that you would like me to plainly profess love for you. But I fear that my spirit, though enflamed with love, cannot meaningfully teach my hand to transmit in words all that it truly feels for you. This seems an impossibility to me right now, the emotions of my inner being too intense, too heartfelt. How can I offer you the verbal proof of my love for which you seek when my love is sequestered, in a sense, out of reach, deep within, defying any sort of definition? I think it best, dear Beloved, that I wait for a more opportune time when my heart is not so agitated, when a sacred silence of spirit allows me to share all that my womanly-love truly yearns to convey. Then, I will be able to say the words you want to hear. I must apologize. What I state here might make you feel that, despite your continual wooing, I remain unwon. This is not the message I would have you receive. It’s just that, for so many years, I have known too well the grief of my own heart, and it cannot be healed in a moment. My long harbored fears that I could never be loved are like a haunting specter in my spirit, a dauntless, voiceless fortitude, which continually whispers its misgivings. All this, for me, becomes a great source of hidden grief, as the Bible uses the phrase, a “rending of my garment” in a display of abject mourning. And so, Beloved, you must grant me time to reorient my life, to accept this new blessing that I may, after all, find the happiness of love.

sonnet 14 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
"I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Robert, many times now you have said that you love me. And nearly as often, attempting to protect you, I have tried to dissuade you. However, if you insist that you are to love me, I must also insist on something: you must love me for nought, you must love me without a reason. Is this foolish talk? I think not. If you must love me, then let it be for love's sake only. Allow me to explain. Do not say, “oh, I love your smile so much” or “it’s that fine-featured beauty of your face” or “I’m just so taken by your soft melodious voice.” No, Dearest, this will never do. Now, maybe you do like my smile, my face, my voice, and that’s well and good, but none of this can serve as bedrock foundation for our love. These gossamer butterflies of surface attraction, here today, gone tomorrow, are just a pleasant trick of Nature to seduce the unwary for purposes of propagating the species. The world is filled with millions and millions of couples thus insubstantially conjoined, and look at their misery soon stalking their homes! Oh, no, Beloved, if you insist on loving me, then let it be for nought, let it be not for a reason – let it be for love’s sake alone. Here’s the real problem with the smile, the face, the voice – what happens when we grow older and these change, when a small measure of beauty flees from us? We know the answer too well. If the reasons for love change, then this kind of love will also change. That wild butterfly of love will zoom out the window as if it never existed. And even if the beauty of the body could somehow remain unchanged, the desires of people can and do change. The husband meets some new dream and now what he thought to be the ultimate smile, face, voice of his wife no longer enchants him. This is the story of the hapless couples of the world. If love is built or created on this basis, then it can also be unbuilt and uncreated – and it’s just a matter of time before two experience this perdition of the heart. Now, some men of better character, more stalwart, might say, “I am kindly affectioned toward this woman, we are friends, I pity her in her grieving aloneness, and I will strive to help and be a good companion for her.” This is noble, but marriage, in its truest form, is more than friendship and more than agape charity to a fellow human being. This is not true marital love, but, well intentioned as it might be, it is the love we are to show to all human beings - but we are not to marry all human beings due to a desire for friendship or service. A marriage built upon feelings of pity will yet devolve to a consuming misery of feeling burned out, of hopeless despair of never finding true happiness for oneself. No, Beloved, the true marriage is much more than this. It is the invisible union of spirits, and this oneness cannot be created by choice or will-power, nor, if it does exist, can it be diminished. If you must love me, then let it be for nought, not for a reason. This means that you will love me for some undefined reason of “just because”, a mysterious reason rising from the depths of our souls. Let it be for love’s sake alone, let it be simply because I am who I am, let it be for your soul falling in love with me, not any surface attraction. And if a couple is thus bound, well then, there they stand, unmovable, unshakable, stationary suns, two spiritually harmonized souls ever unsundered, permanent as God’s spirit, for all eternity, together, in sweetest mutually-embracing delight.

sonnet 15 

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
Too calm and sad a face in front of thine;
For we two look two ways, and cannot shine
With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.
On me thou lookest with no doubting care,
As on a bee shut in a crystalline;
Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love's divine,
And to spread wing and fly in the outer air
Were most impossible failure, if I strove
To fail so. But I look on thee—on thee—
Beholding, besides love, the end of love,
Hearing oblivion beyond memory;
As one who sits and gazes from above,
Over the rivers to the bitter sea.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I can imagine your consternation, Beloved, as you attempt to discern the changing cloudscape of my visage; sometimes, almost normal and calm, then sad and stormy. But what I present on the outside is not always isomorphic to what I truly feel. You and I look out at the same world, but we see different things; the same sunlight casts its radiance differently upon us. I must freely admit that my predominant disposition at this stage of life has been that of sorrow, albeit sequestered in God’ love. Sometimes you see me as static beauty, like a bee frozen in crystal, and I daresay that this image would persist even if that bee strove to shatter your illusion by taking flight, buzzing around the room. But I also harbor my images of you. I see you beholding what you believe to be my beauty, and one who could be your friend – yes, you see this current state of things, but I know you see even more. Your vision extends all the way to the end of what love might become. You see not just with eyes of fatuous idealization but something of the real me, the real us, in a future perfected state of love. You are peering, as from a high mountain, into misty oblivion, all the way to love’s domain even in the afterlife, far beyond what a materialist lover would judge as the bitterness of separation at physical death.

sonnet 16 

And yet, because thou overcomest so,
Because thou art more noble and like a king,
Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling
Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow
Too close against thine heart henceforth to know
How it shook when alone. Why, conquering
May prove as lordly and complete a thing
In lifting upward, as in crushing low!
And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword
To one who lifts him from the bloody earth,
Even so, Beloved, I at last record,
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,
I rise above abasement at the word.
Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

You are winning me to your way of thinking. As you know, I’ve had these fears of unworthiness of being loved, but your steadfast appeals to my heart have worn down the insistence of my self-deprecation. You are a like a noble king, of stalwart and fortitudinous character, overcoming all obstacles. And now you throw your royal purple around me, adding your strength and protection to my troubled heart. I perceive that a conqueror might exert dominion, not just with crushing blow but, with upliftment of those debased. It seems that I am now a loyal subject in your realm. Or maybe I’m like a vanquished enemy soldier, admitting defeat, yielding his sword on the battlefield, to one who raises him up to be his friend. I feel that my time of fighting your proffered love is fast diminishing. And if this is what you truly want, if you, in fact, are inviting me forth to be with you, then, at your summoning and comforting word, I choose to rise above my fears, to make your love more real than the haunting specters of my self-condemnation.

sonnet 17 

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes
God set between his After and Before,
And strike up and strike off the general roar
Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats
In a serene air purely. Antidotes
Of medicated music, answering for
Mankind’s forlornest uses, thou canst pour
From thence into their ears. God’s will devotes
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?
A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine
Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?
A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine?
A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Beloved, you are a poet’s poet, my poet, but also called to speak, to the world, with angelic tongue, for God. Your poetry is like music, touching on all notes of life, spanning “after" and “before”, a celestial lyric addressing “before”-life but also “after”-life. These two worlds, the great divide, dominating our spirits, swirl and rush about us, creating a general roar of concern, but your poetry, amidst this confusion, is like a melody floating serenely; a kind of medicated music, offering the frantic world, antidote to base fears. God employs your poetry, in such manner, to serve the divine will. My poetry and its purpose, clear to me now, is second to yours. I am agreeing to answer the call of your poetic beckoning. But, how do you see me supporting your mission? Am I a hope for future happiness? Possibly one replete with sad memories, like the burdened world, to be healed by your song? Maybe you see me as oasis of refreshment, a shade tree offering soothing respite. Or am I like the grave, that doorway to "after"-life, a total rest from divine-ordained duties? Beloved, how will I fit into your life as God’s poet?

sonnet 18 

I never gave a lock of hair away
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully,
I ring out to the full brown length and say
‘Take it.’ My day of youth went yesterday;
My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee,
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more: it only may
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,
Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside
Through sorrow’s trick. I thought the funeral-shears
Would take this first, but Love is justified,—
Take it thou,—finding pure, from all those years,
The kiss my mother left here when she died.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Highly evocative, and no passing gesture, is a woman’s giving of a lock of hair to a man. In all my life, Dearest, I’ve never done this, only to you. I muse upon the symbolism as I finger a curl, stretching it out, and am taken by the intense portent. The seemingly inert and innocuous curl exists as token of a woman’s secret love, and her unremitting yearning for it, and therefore she safeguards, both the symbol and the antecedent. But now, fully mindful of the metaphor, I say with a measure of firmness, “take it” – it is yours, it belongs to you. I had lost hope of ever offering a lock. When I was quite young, many yesterdays ago, my hair danced in the wind as I played gleefully in the meadows and among the trees, a “la-la-la” carefree little-girl existence. Later, it devolved to something different; in time, my curls would serve only to hide the rivulets of tears upon my cheeks. Before I met you, I believed that any positive symbolism for my hair was all done; awaiting only that closing episode of the undertaker trimming my locks for final public display. But, now I see that someone else holds title-deed to my curls. Love is justified, after all. The Bible says that a woman’s glory is her hair, and Love, my tear-stained desires, symbolized by my hair, is vindicated at the end. Take it, Robert – this small token of hidden yearnings. In all my life, it is given, to you, alone; and this sacred lock, specially sanctified and purified by my mother’s last kiss, about my head and hair, when she died.

sonnet 19 

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd Phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one more heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen!
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old Time! Despite thy wrong
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

We are familiar with the proverb, ‘all good things in this world pass away.’ Time ravages everything: the mighty lion’s claws are dulled, the tiger’s teeth are broken, and anything else we could mention is finally diminished by Time. Entropy is a most unforgiving principle, the whole cosmos is running down, with the very substructure of the Earth, moving from order to disorder. But I stand firm to disallow Time one victim. My love will never suffer decline and diminishment. Time will never cause old-age wrinkles to form on the face of my love. Stay away from him, I say, don’t touch him. He will yet serve as stellar and guiding pattern to succeeding generations as the archetypal image of true eternal love. You cannot pillage him, Mister Time, however, if you must, attempt to do your worst, and even if somehow you manage to be successful, our immortal love, my love for the one I love, will ever enjoy youth and vitality, in my passion-poems.

sonnet 20 

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago, 
What time I sate alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink 
No moment at thy voice ... but, link by link, 
Went counting all my chains, as if that so 
They never could fall off at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand ... why, thus I drink 
Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
With personal act or speech,—nor ever cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white 
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Beloved, my Beloved -- I address you thus with iteration as my emotions are so intensely alive right now – in fact, I astonish myself to consider how different my life has become. One short year ago, before you came, I sat alone, resigning myself to the destitution of brief remaining years. I would sit in the snow, in my terrible solitude – I can still feel the icy touch of the ground, the incessant chill in my life -- and I would never see the snow marred by footprints of fellowship. Chains of solitary confinement held me fast to my fate, and I would count the links of sorrow, one by one. But I am so amazed now at the power of your positive influence in my life. I can hardly believe my wonderful good fortune. You’ve come to mean so much to me that I can scarcely understand how I even existed before your advent. Your very presence, your smallest act or word, lends a thrill to my day and night. Dearest, you saw it coming, the white blossoms of our love heralding a springtime of love, you saw it well before I did; rather, before I could accept it. My lack of faith in ever finding something good in life was not so unlike the dullness of perspicacity of atheists who are blind to the beneficent hand of God producing blessings in our lives.

sonnet 21 

Say over again, and yet once over again, 
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated 
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it, 
Remember, never to the hill or plain, 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed. 
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain 
Cry, "Speak once more—thou lovest!" Who can fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll 
The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear, 
To love me also in silence with thy soul.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I am feeling lighthearted and breezy. I am like a little child who, when she finds something to fascinate, will implore, “oh, please, may I have it again? and again?” And you, Beloved, will you tell me one more time that you love me? and again? and again? Forgive me, Dearest, you are thinking, “I will sound like a chattering cuckoo bird if I keep on repeating a phrase,” but will you allow me this little pleasure? Don’t you see? In my way of thinking – humor me now – if the cuckoo bird does not sing, then the Spring could never make its debut, and Nature itself would lose its annual rhythms; so too would I suffer in my evolution of love were I not to hear your iteration of “I love you.” I do admit it. I am a little neurotic still. The ghosts of my doubts that I could be loved still rise unbidden from my fearful heart. But, oh, can it do any harm for me to hear “I love you” many times? Can there be too many glorious stars in the firmament, or too many beautiful flowers in the meadows? Oh, say that you love me again, and again, and indeed, not merely say but, could you even shout it for me? I am making you laugh now. Please, though, help me in this healing of my soul. My one further request, Beloved, is that, when you repeat, do so only if the outer words conform to the silent witnessing of your deepest person. You have to mean it.

sonnet 22 

When our two souls stand up erect and strong, 
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, 
Until the lengthening wings break into fire 
At either curvèd point,—what bitter wrong 
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher, 
The angels would press on us and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth, Beloved,—where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day, 
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

It is only natural that two like-souled individuals, clear-eyed, led by higher natures, standing before God, life, and each other, should purpose to enjoy consummate unity and oneness. We feel ourselves, progressively, more with each passing day, being drawn to this utmost intimacy. We are like angels whose wings form protective canopy above us, which contiguity, at length, ignites in rapturous fire. People speak of fulfilling desires in heaven, and that is good, but I for one, because we have known true love, would not greatly hesitate to accept our fate just to live here on the Earth. Is this unreasonable? Consider this. If we were to reside in heaven, then the angelic host, no doubt, would insist on dropping some golden orb of perfect song into our spirits. They would mean well, but – we already have heaven with us right now; their gift, we would be tempted to count, as meddling. Beloved, let us remain on the Earth as we’ve made it an outpost of heaven. We perceive that no higher might be enjoyed than what we have. Yes, it is true, on this sorrowful planet some would cause us trouble and keep us apart, but their animosity serves only to heighten our sense of affinity. We have each other, and no contrariness by others will change that. This is all that matters. Let us rejoice in our bonded souls, allowing such as secret garden of peace and security against the world's darkness and death, constantly threatening our love.

sonnet 23 

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 shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine—
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of 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 exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Is it really true? If I were to pass from this world would your own life suffer diminishment? Would the sun’s congenial rays deny you warmth if my infirmed head were to drift into coldness? I was somewhat taken aback, Beloved, when you suggested these anomalies in your letter. Yes, I am yours, but am I as much as all this to you? How can my hands fill your cup of life’s pleasure and meaning when they tremble in weakness? My soul is more accustomed to daydreaming of death than reveling in your kind estimations of my value. If you cannot be persuaded to adopt a more humble view of my estate, then you are left with the prospect of loving me – and so, love me! Rescue me from my thoughts of death. Breathe the breath of life upon me and raise me to new vitality. Common wisdom of those of my species would surrender much more to hear words of love, and, therefore, if in fact you do love me, then I will forsake my preoccupation with death and the grave, I will agree to exchange my premature wish for heaven’s solace, and remain on the earth, with you.

sonnet 24 

Let the world's sharpness, like a clasping knife,
Shut in upon itself and do no harm
In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,
And let us hear no sound of human strife
After the click of the shutting. Life to life—
I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,
And feel as safe as guarded by a charm
Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife
Are weak to injure. Very whitely still
The lilies of our lives may reassure
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer,
Growing straight, out of man's reach, on the hill.
God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I propose a new world order. Let the world’s evil, its incivility and violence, be like a well-sharpened, but closed, pocket-knife, unable to harm us. Let it enfold itself and cover its vices in the commanding and comforting hand of Love, soft and warm. Let there be no more suffering ones, crying in anguish and despair, victims of assault and brutality. Once the pocket-knife is closed, let it all be done. Yes, I know, I hope for too much. But, in microcosm, I have already come to my golden era of world peace. I lean upon you, Dearest, my life to your life, and now I am no longer troubled as much about the world’s madness. I feel safe with you. You are like a charm of protection to me, against the worldlings, those who live and die by the world’s fear and greed. These insane ones live unrestrained, take what they crave, are rife with unkindnesses. In their incessant graspings, they consider themselves strong but in fact are weak, powerless in the only realm that matters, that comforting hand of Love. Our consecrated lives are like pure white lilies. Despite the barrenness and desiccation around us, these lilies are nourished by the morning dew sprinkled from heaven. Fortified thus, lilies grow straight and strong, careless of worldly harm; in fact, live sequestered on a hilltop, well out of reach of the madding crowd. Let me be plain. Only God’s Love can heal the insanity of this world, only the God who made us rich in his lovingkindness can make us poor, as is the world, if we deny him.

sonnet 25 

A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
From year to year until I saw thy face,
And sorrow after sorrow took the place
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn
As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace
Were changed to long despairs, till God’s own grace
Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn
My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring
And let it drop adown thy calmly great
Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing
Which its own nature doth precipitate,
While thine doth close above it, mediating
Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

My heavy heart, Beloved, had burdened me, most of my life, until your coming. Sorrow after sorrow had been my lot. While I did receive certain natural joys, especially in young girlhood, these small tokens of happiness I wore lightly as a hardly-noticed string of pearls; each feather-weight gem offering mere gossamer solace; like being asked to dance but with the happiness of being noticed lasting only a couple of minutes. Early youthful hopes, my often lighthearted spirits then, were as quickly met and answered by the heavy reality of years of despair. I would become inconsolable. Oh, the sordidness of the empty years stretching before the vision of my beleaguered heart! But then, in God’s grace, you came. And you called to me, to my forlorn heart, summoning it to believe your professions of love. In the beginning, I could not accept that your person could be substantial enough to outweigh my sorrows. But you persisted, and my unnatural self-condemnation undid itself in favor of a natural blossoming of my inner sacred person. Beloved, you have been like a mediator, a cosmic middleman, bridging the gap between a stellar vision of what God made me to be and the unaccomplished dark fate of my own self-incriminations.

sonnet 26 

I lived with visions for my company
Instead of men and women, years ago,
And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
A sweeter music than they played to me.
But soon their trailing purple was not free
Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow,
And I myself grew faint and blind below
Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come—to be,
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,
Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,
As river-water hallowed into fonts),
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
My soul with satisfaction of all wants:
Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

There was a time in my life, and not so long ago, when I took fellowship not in people but in visions, my own imaginations. I found these mental icons to be gentle mates, good friends; in fact, in my life, to that time, I’d known nothing sweeter. However, I then entered a period of life so despondent and despairing that not even my fruitful imagination could make me smile. All seemed very dark, and I believed myself to be in my last days. But then, YOU came. I found you, Beloved, to be the embodiment of all my earlier hopeful visions. The entire youthful hopeful mental pageantry – the shining fountains, the cheering songs, the splendors of ecstasy – converged to meet precisely in your wonderful person. But, even more, from that convergence emerged an existential prompting allowing me to want to live again. My soul, suddenly and incredibly, now enjoyed a deep satisfaction of all its desires fulfilled. Oh, the monumental lesson I learned! – God’s gifts are much more potent to make us happy than our wildest dreams and imaginings. I would never have dared allowed myself to picture, not the half of it, all that I now feel in receipt of your love, Robert.

sonnet 27 

My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,
And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully
Shines out again, as all the angels see,
Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,
Who camest to me when the world was gone,
And I who looked for only God, found thee!
I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.
As one who stands in dewless asphodel
Looks backward on the tedious time he had
In the upper life,—so I, with bosom-swell,
Make witness, here, between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I refer to you as my Beloved, as so you are, but I might also call you the one who has lifted me up. Before your coming, I had been cast down, flat, upon the earth, hemmed about by languishing hopes. But now even my forehead glows with new optimism. Before you came, the world, that little brightness it might offer, was gone for me. I sought relief for my troubled mind in God, but then I found you! Now I feel safe, strong, and glad. Not long ago I stood upon and peered across the mythical elysian fields of the afterlife; all I could see were dewless asphodel, the flowers for the dead. But now I look back on that time with both wonderment and gratitude, swelling my bosom with a sacred appreciation. I now know that the force of Love is stronger than Death, that Love not only imparts solace and joy but rescues and transforms one’s entire life.

sonnet 28 

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee tonight.
This said—he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand. . . a simple thing,
Yes I wept for it—this . . . the paper's light. . .
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Tonight I have been reviewing the letters you’ve sent over these last many months. Here they are, resting on my knees. I’ve kept them safe, bound with string, each in its ordered witness, as they present an astonishing panoply of our love's development. A sense of marvel causes my hands to tremble as I study these holy relics of erotic affection. In one sense, your letters are just dead paper, mute and white. And yet, oh, how they take life to themselves and invade my person! Certain phrases, especially, catch my eye; for example, the time you said that you wished me to never leave your sight; or, your pledge to visit me, to touch my hand – oh, what a simple pleasure for one's hand to be touched, and yet I find myself weeping in hopes of it. These phrases make the paper seem so light, I half expect them to float away in their sublimity of proffered endearment. And then there was that first time you spoke so frankly, “Dear, I love you,” and I sank into a swoon at this plain declaration! It was so wonderful to be loved, and this hint of promise of a new future hit me like a thunderbolt, as if God, in one stroke, were expunging my sorrowful past. And then, in a subsequent letter, you became even more bold and asserted “I am yours!” – oh, oh, my heart was beating so fast, I was not used to this kind of forthright dedication, such clear words of fealty. But you were not finished with your unequivocal statements. No, you were not shy, and I have here before me that “fire-brand” profession of utmost desire for me! – oh, but, don’t worry, Dearest, I won’t repeat what you said in this forum. Yes, the paper of your letters is dead, mute and white, it all might seem innocuous enough, but the content is electric and radioactive, scorching to the touch!

sonnet 29 

I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there 's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee
Drop heavily down,—burst, shattered, everywhere!
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air,
I do not think of thee—I am too near thee.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

You are never far from my thoughts, Robert. Every notion that passes through my head is somehow entwined with your image. Can one love another too much? I am nearing this perdition as, truth be told, soon there’ll be nothing of my own thoughts with only you remaining. The privacy of my own mind has been invaded and now there may be more of you than me. You are, to me, like a strong palm-tree, I find myself leaning on you, taking your strength as my own, to the point of subsuming myself to your spirit. I am apt to count you, the one who rescued my life from miseries, as dearer, better, than myself. Is this pathological thinking? I protest, no, as I can no longer live without you, so what good am I unless you claim me? But my request is this. I want you to be more than a thought-form. I want you to renew your presence as a real live human being. Like that strong palm-tree, I wish for you to rustle the boughs, allow the greenery to drop down heavily in my life. Let it burst, and shatter, everwhere. I want you not just as an airy idea of love but as a solid flesh-and-blood lover. I am very near the point now, Dearest, when I will no longer be able to merely think of you – you’ve become a pressing reality, are too much to me now, far too near to exist only as a concept in the head. I long for your continued presence.

sonnet 30 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I see your face tonight, appearing before me, taking form, but through my tears. Earlier today, I thought I saw you smiling. How do I account for these visitations? Are you, or am I, the cause of a sadness which, of late, I cannot seem to evade? Am I like an attendant to a joyful religious ritual, but one whose countenance does not always reflect the underlying positiveness of the rite? Sometimes, I feel so burdened when I should feel elation, to meet you, by any means. In this imagined ritualism, I hear your voice, and the acolyte in me springs to make vow to you, but, even so, I am perplexed, uncertain, as you are out of sight, and my sense of certainty of our love flees from me. Beloved, do you in fact love me? or was I swooning to imagine a love during a time of hyped religious fervor? Were the eyes of my soul deceived by a heavenly ideal of love, and did I see only what I wanted to see? Will the sweet glory of actual and true love witness to me again? I am sorry. My hot tears, at this moment, tempt me to doubt.

sonnet 31 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

You’ve actually come back to me. You are real to me again. I am made whole without a single word from you. I bask, carefree, in the approval of your love, as children play contentedly on a bright summer day. I feel a trembling within, a happiness wishing to express itself, but my joy, while real, is somewhat tentative, like a doubtful prodigal returning from misspent journeys. I am sorry, Beloved. I sinned against you and our holy romance the last time I addressed you. Even so, I cannot altogether decry my doubt, as I am only human, but my regret centers primarily about sullying the occasion, which should have been my celebration of your love for me. I spoke ill-advisedly in that I fell from the grace of a mutual presence to each other. Normally, what we have together is real to me, but I allowed my old fears to intervene. My solution is this: if I am weak, you must be strong, for both of us. If I am tempted to fall away, you must fortify yourself to come near and be close, to counterbalance. If you would do this, then, when my fears begin to rise in their hauntings, the largeness of your heart will shield us both. Warm and protect me, and us, with the manly strength God has given you to bolster my trepidations. I am like a featherless little bird still unable to fly, in need of your mantle of safety.

sonnet 32 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I sit here in quiet repose, this first morning after your pledge to love me in matrimony. Some would say that I should be delighted but, instead, I am filled with doubt and look forward to the evening. Then, with some hours intervening, a better sensibility, surely, will have settled upon me, and us, and this heady rush to ill-advised union will have slackened. I cannot help recalling the proverb, “those who quickly love soon quickly loathe”. As I contemplate what I might offer you, I am forced to judge myself realistically. Robert – think clearly. I am like a worn out viol, a musical instrument that’s seen better days. But you are like a celebrated singer who, snatching in haste an unbecoming instrument, would soon put me down at the first ill-sounding note. Do I comment too harshly of us? Possibly, but there is no inaccuracy concerning my frailties, and I’m also not wrong in my assessment of your stellar self. Yes, we are mismatched, but it is also true that a master musician might produce beautiful music with a defective instrument. Is it possible to fall in love quickly but authentically? Well, I suppose that I must concede that it is possible - if love issues from the soul; which could happen if two lovers are great souls. Then, at one stroke of the bow upon the viol, they might instantly enjoy a harmonized music of their inner beings.

sonnet 33 

Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear
The name I used to run at, when a child,
From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled,
To glance up in some face that proved me dear
With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear
Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled
Into the music of Heaven's undefiled,
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,
While I call God—call God!—So let thy mouth
Be heir to those who are now exanimate.
Gather the north flowers to complete the south,
And catch the early love up in the late.
Yes, call me by that name,—and I, in truth,
With the same heart, will answer and not wait.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Earlier I wrote requesting, “please, say it again.” I confided that certain words and phrases take me back to my carefree little-girl “la-la-la” existence. Will you humor me again? Will you address me with the pet-name I answered to in those halcyon days of running in fields adorned with carpets of flowers? Oh, how part of me wishes for those free and lighthearted days, when I was loved purely! But that was so long ago, and now I implore you, Beloved: will you call me by my pet-name? How that little girl deep within would love to associate you with the time of greatest happiness in my life! My heart yearns to be called by those cherished voices of my youth which cherished me. But they call me no longer, are now but memories of silence encased in coffins, gone. Instead, I call on God to restore love to my life. And so, as I am now the one who calls, let my voice become heir to those loving voices of my youth. I want to love, freely, purely, as I was once loved – let me once again run in wide fields of endless flowers, from north to south. Yes, Dearest, answer my call to love by addressing me by that little-girl pet-name. Then I will know, or feel, that I am truly loved, and, with echoing heart, I will respond in kind, immediately, as a little girl who will not wait to answer.

sonnet 34 

With the same heart, I said, I’ll answer thee
As those, when thou shalt call me by my name—
Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same,
Perplexed and ruffled by life’s strategy?
When called before, I told how hastily
I dropped my flowers or brake off from a game,
To run and answer with the smile that came
At play last moment, and went on with me
Through my obedience. When I answer now,
I drop a grave thought, break from solitude;
Yet still my heart goes to thee—ponder how—
Not as to a single good, but all my good!
Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow
That no child’s foot could run fast as this blood.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I closed the last poem with an assertion that I would answer your call “with the same heart.” Strictly speaking, Dearest, this would not be true. I made a vain promise. In those early years, when I was called by a pet-name, I would hastily drop my flowers, or end my games, to run to the calling voice of dear ones. My obedience would be rewarded by an approving smile, which would please me. Today, of course, it is different. The dear ones are all gone. And when you call to me today, by my pet-name, I am taken by a grave thought, an image of times past of those others who summoned me. The real difference is that, they, in aggregation, constituted the good in my life; however, you presently are, to me, not just one among many goods but – you are all my good! I want you to realize, Best One, to allow, that my eager response, back then, to a dear one’s calling voice, is nothing compared to how fast that little girl now runs, to you.

sonnet 35 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Beloved, I’ve been giving serious thought to the practical effects of beginning a totally new life, with you. Please forgive me, but – I think what I fear most, in this regard, is the lop-sided love affair. What I mean is, I would be making myself totally vulnerable, giving up absolutely every detail of support in my life for our marriage, but, would you truly be giving up everything for me? As I look about my house, I see so many ordinary things that I’ve come to love and rely on. Would I soon be homesick for the daily “home-talk,” the greeting and the “common kiss”? I have to admit, it is a bit frightening to give up home-and-hearth, all that I’ve ever known. I don’t want you to be offended by this, but, I suppose my real underlying concern is, can I trust you with my life? When we go to live in another house, will I be haunted by memories of now-unreachable family members? Will you truly be able to fill that void in my heart? And you well know by now, Dear, I might have a special weakness in this area. So much of my life has been that of battling sorrow, since I lost some of my health. Will you be able to deal with this? – my susceptibility to melancholia? I know, this makes me hard to love, and I wouldn’t blame you for stepping back from a high-maintenance girl. And yet, despite all that I’ve just said to drive you away, I want you to stay. I couldn't bear you to leave! Can you love me, truly so? Will you open your heart wide to enfold the panicked flutterings of your trepidatious little dove?

sonnet 36 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

When we first began to discuss the possibility of love, I hardly need remind you, I was more than a little skeptical; no foundation of marble, this new prospect, it seemed to me, only wood andstraw. My life has been a pendulum swing between sorrow and more sorrow and so I dared not hope for much. My only enthusiasm then, sadly, was to insist on believing the worst. And while, since that time of erratic disbelief, I have grown a little more serene and strong, I also sense that God requires me to maintain a certain lingering center of fear of loss. Oh, my love, oh, my betrothed, I am afraid to give my heart in an unreserved manner. What if, having come so close now to the fulfillment of all my little-girl dreams, what if I should lose you just at the end? My concern is that Love, so insistent in its desire to fulfill itself, should be found as something false. If my cautionary fear is of God, will its rising be the necessary setting of Love’s influence in my life?

sonnet 37 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I must ask your forgiveness, Beloved – please forgive me! My soul has sinned against your finer perceptions of things divine. At times I’ve counted you as one in error, and I am sorry for misrepresenting your assessment of our love, and disrespecting your sovereignty in matters of wisdom. My beleaguered brain, swimming in doubt and dread of loss, has caused me to distort the purity of your image as you stand before God, and to treat our sacred love as counterfeit and base. I have claimed to know God, but I haven’t always acted like it. I’m like a pagan primitive, lending reality to idols, those of the mind, and denying divinity’s guiding hand in our lives.

sonnet 38 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

The first time you kissed me, it was not my lips but my fingers. You kissed the fingers of my writing-hand. Ever since that first kiss, that hand has grown more pure, more clean and white; now, it is slow to write of mere worldly sentiment but is quick to record the words and thoughts of angels. Moreover, the hand that you kissed seems specially adorned now, more attention-getting than if I wore a ring of purple gem. Your second kiss affected me even more deeply: you kissed my forehead, and half missed, kissing my hair, as well. Oh, that second kiss was like an anointing, like holy chrism oil consecrating me to our love’s potent force and future. The third time you kissed me, our lips did meet - a kiss from my royal prince, arrayed in sacred purple. Since then, in receipt of this holy trinity of kisses, I have been proud to claim you as “my love, my own.”

sonnet 39 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

You see me as I really am. You see behind the mask I wear. I have tried to put you off by presenting myself as a sorrowful creature, but you see my soul’s true face. You see with eyes not just of love but of faith; you see what I will be, you see what God meant for me to be, you see me more clearly than I see myself. Nothing dissuades you – neither my sins nor woeful tales. Others see me, too, but they do not see what you see; they, turn to go upon seeing, but you, remain. Nothing repels you. Dearest, you are teaching me to see as God sees, with acceptance of my person, in the seeing; and I will always love you for that. I will love you for the good you have helped me to see in myself.

sonnet 40 

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Oh, yes! We’ve heard what the world says about love. It makes the planet turn round, they say; it’s the hidden motivator, the impetus for all birds and bees. We will not deny this, but are we to be impressed by the world’s hymn to love? They praise it, worship it, it is the talk of young people and older ones. However, with all this headline publicity, why is it that their love so easily turns to hate? Why does their love last but a short time? – hardly any time until the once-jubilant are now wishing for oblivion, now cursed in their tragic unions. But you, Beloved, are not of that mind. I know that you would not desert me even in sickness and sorrow. The soon-miserable lovers of the world cry “now it’s too late”, but you, Dearest, I know, will be saying of our days, “they pass too soon.”

sonnet 41 

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,
With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all
Who paused a little near the prison-wall
To hear my music in its louder parts
Ere they went onward, each one to the mart’s
Or temple’s occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice’s sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art’s
Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot
To hearken what I said between my tears, . . .
Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot
My soul’s full meaning into future years,
That they should lend it utterance, and salute
Love that endures, from Life that disappears!

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

I am feeling grateful to those who offer any token of love as we journey on life’s path – family, friends, community. I offer deep thanks to all who paused on their way, even a short time, to listen to the muted music of my soul. But you, Beloved, not only stopped to listen but truly understood the music of my life, albeit often interrupted by tears. I search for a way to express my thanks. Oh, if I could transport myself to a distant future time, as one having been blessed with a faithful and wise friend, I believe I would find those future years augmented and expanded. My prescient eyes already know that your love will elevate my spirit, even as the life of youth fades away.

sonnet 42 

'My future will not copy fair my past’—
I wrote that once; and thinking at my side
My ministering life-angel justified
The word by his appealing look upcast
To the white throne of God, I turned at last,
And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied
To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried
By natural ills, received the comfort fast,
While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim’s staff
Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.
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!

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

“My future will not resemble the past. It will be much better.” This is something I once wrote. At the time I envisioned a guardian angel at my side. She seemed to be in agreement with my prophecy as she cast her eyes heavenward to God’s throne. Then I turned my head to witness another marvel. I think I caught a glimpse of you, also aided by angels. And then I realized that you had been sent to comfort me, not only with marital love but, concerning my sorrows due to illness. I felt so much better seeing you as an answer to prayers. Believe me, Dearest, I seek no replay of life’s first half. I am so happy to leave it far behind. With you, I will write a brand new chapter for remaining years. And now I no longer require an invisible guardian as you are all the Angel I will ever need.

sonnet 43 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most 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 use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With 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.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

What is this mystery? What is the nature of my love for you? How can I explain it? There are so many aspects to it, I’m led to make a list. I love you to all three dimensions of my soul – length, breadth, and height – to the remote extremities of their boundaries. In this utmost expansiveness, I love you as far as my yearning and outstretched soul might reach, all the way to that lofty domain of perfected being, all that I might yet become as envisioned in the mind of God; even more, I see your love leading me to the farthest realms of spiritual growth and actualized grace, one's complete union with God. I also love you in ordinary and mundane ways, day or night, whatever you require to make you happy. I love you without coercion or external prompting. I love you by my own free choice; insistent, even as the stalwart who vigorously champion personal freedoms. I love you with a pure and humble love, as you yourself are enough for me, with no neurotic need to invite the envy of others. I love you with a degree of passion once reserved for attending to my old sorrows. I love you with a fervor found only in a little girl’s unquestioned faith in her religion; moreover, I love you with a focused devotion I once knew for the revered and adored patron saints in my life. And if all this were not enough, I love you with my last breath, with every smile, every tear, I’ve ever expressed, as I now see you to be the embodiment, and fulfillment, of all of my life’s strivings for happiness. And, if God is willing, I shall love you, and offer you, even more in the next life, our shared eternal life.

sonnet 44 

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers,
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine,
Here’s ivy!— take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

Editor’s expanded paraphrase:

Beloved, this past year you have brought me many flowers, offered summer and winter. These represent your gifts of love, pledges of devotion, your upliftment of my spirit. In like manner, take these, my poems, as my own flowers to you, a reciprocity of affection. These poems I have drawn from my heart’s soil, on both warm and cold days. It is true, the flowerbed of my heart had sometimes been overgrown with bitter weeds and sorrows, but my garden has awaited your tender pruning and weeding. Please take these poems, my flowers to you, keep them where they shall not droop. Instruct your eyes to keep their colors bright and true, and, most of all, remind your soul that their roots intertwine mine.