Sonnets from the Portuguese i-v

类别:文学名著 作者:伊丽莎白·巴雷特·勃朗宁 本章:Sonnets from the Portuguese i-v

    I t once us had sung

    Of t years, the dear and wishd-for years,

    ho each one in a gracious hand appears

    to bear a gift for mortals old or young:

    And, as I mused it in ique tongue,

    I saears

    t, sad years, the melancholy years--

    turns had flung

    A sraightway I was ware,

    So weeping, ic Shape did move

    Behe hair;

    And a voice said in mastery, wrove,

    Guess nohere

    t Deat Love.

    UNLIKE are we, unlike, O princely !

    Unlike our uses and our destinies.

    Our ministering two angels look surprise

    On one anotrike at

    t

    A guest for queens to social pageantries,

    iter eyes

    tears even can make mine, to play t

    Of c  to do

    ittice-lig me--

    A poor, tired, hrough

    tree?

    the dew--

    And Deat dig these agree.

    GO from me. Yet I feel t I sand

    hy shadow. Nevermore

    Alone upon threshold of my door

    Of individual life I shall command

    t my hand

    Serenely in the sunshine as before,

    it t which I forbore--

    touc land

    Doom takes to part us, leaves t in mine

    it beat double.  I do

    And he wine

    Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

    God for myself,  name of thine,

    And sees ears of two.

    IF t love me, let it be for naught

    Except for loves sake only. Do not say,

    I love her for her smile--her look--her way

    Of speaking gently,--for a trick of t

    t falls in es brought

    A sense of pleasant ease on such a day--

    For themselves, Beloved, may

    Be c,

    May be unwrougher love me for

    tys wiping my cheeks dry:

    A creature mig to weep, who bore

    t long, and lose thereby!

    But love me for loves sake, t evermore

    t love on, ternity.

    and up erect and strong,

    Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,

    Until to fire

    At eit,--ter wrong

    Can t we s long

    Be ented? ting 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

    Rat

    Contrarious moods of men recoil away

    And isolate pure spirits, and permit

    A place to stand and love in for a day,

    it.


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