English poet.
Indeed this very love which is my boast, And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say
Which is the weakest thing of all Mine heart can ponder?
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
When we met first and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. Could it mean
What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river?
Yet, my pretty sportive friend, Little is't to such an end
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
I tell you hopeless grief is passionless, That only men incredulous of despair,
Indeed this very love which is my boast, And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say
Which is the weakest thing of all Mine heart can ponder?
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers Plucked in the garden, all the summer through
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
When we met first and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. Could it mean
What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river?
Yet, my pretty sportive friend, Little is't to such an end
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
I tell you hopeless grief is passionless, That only men incredulous of despair,