Sonnets from the Portuguese 28: My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white !
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 lying 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!


