Sonnet Xxviii
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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 !
Next 10 Poems
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxx
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxi
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxiii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxiv
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxix
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxv
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxvi
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxvii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxxviii
Previous 10 Poems
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxvii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxvi
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxv
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxix
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxiv
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxiii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xxi
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xx
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Sonnet Xviii