Chapter 77 Sonnet XXXVI-XXXIX

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 enclasped hands should never hold, This mutual kiss drop down between us both As an unowned thing, once the lips are cold. And Love, be false ! if he, to keep one oath,

Must lose one joy, by his lives star foretold. 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 enclasped hands should never hold, This mutual kiss drop down between us both As an unowned thing, once the lips are cold.

And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath, Must lose one joy, by his lives star foretold. 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 suffer 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 sculpted porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. 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 suffer 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 sculpted porpoise, gills a-snort And vibrant tail, within the temple gate. 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 Oh, 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 loves 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. First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The finger of this hand where with I write; And ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh, 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 loves 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." Because thou hast the power and ownst the grace To look through and behind this mask of me (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly With their rains), and behold my souls true face, The dim and weary witness of lifes race,-- Because thou hast the faith and love to see, Through that same souls distracting lethargy, The patient angel waiting for a place In the new Heavens,--because nor sin nor woe,

Nor Gods infection, nor deaths neighborhood, 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! Because thou hast the power and ownst the grace To look through and behind this mask of me (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly With their rains), and behold my souls true face, The dim and weary witness of lifes race, Because thou hast the faith and love to see, Through that same souls distracting lethargy, The patient angel waiting for a place

In the new Heavens,--because nor sin nor woe, Nor Gods infection, nor deaths neighbourhood, Nor all which others viewing, turn to go, Nor all of which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,-- Nothing repels thee,...Dearest, teach me so To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!