If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, When I look up, to drop on a new range Of walls and floors,--another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Fill'd by dead eyes, too tender to know change? That's hardest! If to conquer love, has tried, To conquer grief tries more, as all things prove: For grief indeed is love, and grief beside. Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love-- Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. (ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, xxxv. 1850.) The forty-four _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ (the title, of course, being purely fanciful) constitute one of the chief sonnet-sequences of the modern period. While true to the Italian rime-structure, Mrs. Browning cannot be said to have treated the sonnet either as a two-part poem or as a unit. Only three of the series, says Professor Corson (the first, fourth, and thirteenth), "can be said to realize with any distinctness the idea and the peculiar artistic effect of the sonnet proper." Hence while calling them "the most beautiful love-poems in the language," he thinks "they cannot be classed as sonnets." (_Primer of English Verse_, pp. 175, 176.) A Sonnet is a moment's monument,-- Memorial from the Soul's eternity To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be, Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, Of its own arduous fulness reverent: Carve it in ivory or in ebony, As Day or Night may rule; and let Time see Its flowering crest impearled and orient. A sonnet is a coin: its face reveals The soul,--its converse, to what Power 'tis due:-- Whether for tribute to the august appeals Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue, It serve; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous breath, In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death. (ROSSETTI: Sonnet preceding _The House of Life_. 1881.) When do I see thee most, beloved one? When in the light the spirits of mine eyes Before thy face, their altar, solemnize The worship of that Love through thee made known? Or when in the dusk hours (we two alone), Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, And my soul only sees thy soul its own? O love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,-- How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing? (ROSSETTI: _The House of Life_: Sonnet iv. _Lovesight_. 1870.)