INDEX OF FIRST LINES
59 lines✦
I thought once how Theocritus had sungII But only three in all God’s universeIII Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!IV Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floorV I lift my heavy heart up solemnlyVI Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall standVII The face of all the world is changed, I thinkVIII What can I give thee back, O liberalIX Can it be right to give what I can give?X Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeedXI And therefore if to love can be desertXII Indeed this very love which is my boastXIII And wilt thou have me fashion into speechXIV If thou must love me, let it be for noughtXV Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wearXVI And yet, because thou overcomest soXVII My poet thou canst touch on all the notesXVIII I never gave a lock of hair awayXIX The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandizeXX Beloved, my beloved, when I thinkXXI Say over again, and yet once over againXXII When our two souls stand up erect and strongXXIII Is it indeed so? If I lay here deadXXIV Let the world’s sharpness like a clasping knifeXXV A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borneXXVI I lived with visions for my companyXXVII My own Beloved, who hast lifted meXXVIII My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!XXIX I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and budXXX I see thine image through my tears to-nightXXXI Thou comest! all is said without a wordXXXII The first time that the sun rose on thine oathXXXIII Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hearXXXIV With the same heart, I said, I’ll answer theeXXXV If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchangeXXXVI When we met first and loved, I did not buildXXXVII Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should makeXXXVIII First time he kissed me, he but only kissedXXXIX Because thou hast the power and own’st the graceXL Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!XLI I thank all who have loved me in their heartsXLII My future will not copy fair my pastXLIII How do I love thee? Let me count the waysXLIV Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers I I thought once how Theocritus had sungOf the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,Who each one in a gracious hand appearsTo 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 flungA shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,So weeping, how a mystic Shape did moveBehind 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.”
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