Sonnets from the Portugese V. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

[redlyreflected]

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
as once Electra her sepulchral urn,
and, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
the ashes at they feet. Behold and see
what a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
and how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn
could treat them out to darkness utterly,
it might be well perhaps. But if instead
thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
the grey dust up, ... those laurels on thine head,
O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,
that none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
the hair beneath. Stand farther off, then! Go.

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