How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight.

  XXI

  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.

  Belovèd, 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.

  XXII

  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, Belovèd,—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.

  XXIII

  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 Belovèd, 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!

  XXIV

  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.

  XXV

  A heavy heart, Belovèd, 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 does precipitate,

  While thine doth close above it, mediating

  Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate.

  XXVI

  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,

  Belovèd, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,

  Their songs, their splendours, (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.

  XXVII

  My own Belovèd, 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.

  XXVIII

  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 to-night.

  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,

  Yet 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!

  XXIX

  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.

  XXX

  I see thine image through my tears to-night,

  And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How

  Refer the cause?—Belovèd, is it thou

  Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte

  Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite

  May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,

  On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow,

  Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,

  As he, in his swooning ears, the choir’s amen.

  Belovèd, dost thou love? or did I see all

  The glory as I dreamed, and fa
inted when

  Too vehement light dilated my ideal,

  For my soul’s eyes? Will that light come again,

  As now these tears come—falling hot and real?

  XXXI

  Thou comest! all is said without a word.

  I sit beneath thy looks, as children do

  In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through

  Their happy eyelids from an unaverred

  Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred

  In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue

  The sin most, but the occasion—that we two

  Should for a moment stand unministered

  By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,

  Thou dove-like help! and when my fears would rise,

  With thy broad heart serenely interpose:

  Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies

  These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,

  Like callow birds left desert to the skies.

  XXXII

  The first time that the sun rose on thine oath

  To love me, I looked forward to the moon

  To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon

  And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.

  Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;

  And, looking on myself, I seemed not one

  For such man’s love!—more like an out-of-tune

  Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth

  To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,

  Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.

  I did not wrong myself so, but I placed

  A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float

  ’Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,—

  And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

  XXXIII

  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 plied,

  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.

  XXXIV

  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 howmdash;

  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.

  XXXV

  If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

  And be all to me? Shall I never miss

  Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss

  That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,

  When I look up, to drop on a new range

  Of walls and floors, another home than this?

  Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is

  Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change

  That’s hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,

  To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,

  For grief indeed is love and grief beside.

  Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.

  Yet love me—wilt thou? Open thy heart wide,

  And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

  XXXVI

  When we met first and loved, I did not build

  Upon the event with marble. Could it mean

  To last, a love set pendulous between

  Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled,

  Distrusting every light that seemed to gild

  The onward path, and feared to overlean

  A finger even. And, though I have grown serene

  And strong since then, I think that God has willed

  A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . .

  Lest these enclaspèd hands should never hold,

  This mutual kiss drop down between us both

  As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold.

  And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath,

  Must lose one joy, by his life’s star foretold.

  XXXVII

  Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make

  Of all that strong divineness which I know

  For thine and thee, an image only so

  Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.

  It is that distant years which did not take

  Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,

  Have forced my swimming brain to undergo

  Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake

  Thy purity of likeness and distort

  Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit.

  As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,

  His guardian sea-god to commemorate,

  Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort

  And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.

  XXXVIII

  First time he kissed me, he but only kissed

  The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;

  And ever since, it grew more clean and white.

  Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “O, list,”

  When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst

  I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,

  Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

  The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,

  Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!

  That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,

  With sanctifying sweetness, did precede

  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.”

  XXXIX

  Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace

  To look through and behind this mask of me,

  (Against which, years have beat thus blanchingly,

  With their rains,) and behold my soul’s true face,

  The dim and weary witness of life’s race,—

  Because thou hast the faith and love to see,

  Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,

  The patient angel waiting for a place

  In the new Heavens,—because nor sin nor woe,

  Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,

  Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,

  Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—

  Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so

  To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

  XL

  Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!

  I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth:

  I have heard love talked in my early youth,

  And since, not so long back but that the flowers

  Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours

  Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth

  For any weeping. Polypheme’s white tooth

  Slips
on the nut if, after frequent showers,

  The shell is over-smooth,—and not so much

  Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate

  Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such

  A lover, my Belovèd! thou canst wait

  Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,

  And think it soon when others cry “Too late.”

  XLI

  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 harken 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!

  XLII

  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!

  XLIII

  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 everyday’s

  Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.