Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXI

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Thou comest! all is said without a word.I sit beneath thy looks, as children doIn the noon-sun, with souls that tremble throughTheir happy eyelids from an unaverredYet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erredIn that last doubt! and yet I cannot rueThe sin most, but the occasion-that we twoShould for a moment stand unministeredBy 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 sufficienciesThese thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,Like callow birds left desert to the skies.

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning