How do I love Thee? Let me Count the Ways, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, —- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! —- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Grief, By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach.
Full desertness, In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy dead in silence like to death— Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: If it could weep, it could arise and go…
On Monsieur’s Departure, by Elizabeth I, Queen of England
I grieve and dare not show my discontent;
I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate.
I am, and not; I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.
My care is like my shadow in the sun—
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth what I have done;
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be supprest.
Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft, and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die, and so forget what love e’er meant.
"My Message in a Bottle"
Drawing by my wonderfully talented sister
Egyptian Arabic. Requested.
Pronounciation: Ana za-maan ha-beyt.
Photo by Chris Rivera
Black as night, the blood that runs through that man’s veins. Cold and mangled the putrid black tar runs straight through the obtuse grid. Slowly pouring into the mangled mess he calls a heart. Knowing once the warmth that now minutely sparks the small flame of life. The spark of something he once knew, the yearning of those feelings, of love. - Kurisu
En los días de transcendencia…
La incertidumbre de mi amor es palpable, extraño la mirada con aprecio… Los labios de ternura por donde los dulces sonoros de aprecio me acariciaban.. Resplandeciendo en mi la sonrisa contagiosa que te hacia preguntar, ¿Qué fue?
¿Dónde estas corazón?
In the days of significance …
The uncertainty of my love is palpable, strange looks with appreciation … The lips of tenderness where the sweet sound of appreciation caressed me .. Shining in my contagious smile that made you ask, what was it?
Where are you, my love?