An earlier post on Virginia Woolf included a reference to Elizabeth Barrett Browning; ever since I’ve been meaning to post this poem, numbered 43 in her Sonnets from the Portuguese. It is among her best-known works, but it is also the first thing that comes to mind whenever I hear people talk about love, but actually mean habit, convenience, vanity, possessiveness, power, or whatever else but love. After all it may not be such a bad idea to set the record straight every now and again.
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 candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the 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.
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