SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
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 in a crystalline;--
For 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.