Sonnet XXVIII
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806 (Kelloe) – 1861 (Florence)
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 Iying 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 !
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 29, 2023
- 38 sec read
- 83 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABBAABBAACDCDC |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 644 |
Words | 127 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 14 |
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"Sonnet XXVIII" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 8 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/10359/sonnet-xxviii>.
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