Sonnet from the Portuguese
First
time he kissed me, he but kiss’d
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and
white,
Slow
to the world-greetings, quick with its “Oh, list,”
When
the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second pass’d in
height
The
first, and sought my forehead, and half miss’d,
Half
falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love’s
own crown,
With
sanctifying sweetness, did proceed.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In
perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud, and said, “My love, my
own!”
Elizabeth Barret Browning
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