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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 every day’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 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. Poetry Out Loud Note : In the print anthology, this poem is titled simply "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." The student may give either title during their recitation.

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers Plucked in the garden, all the summer through And winter, and it seemed as if they grew In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers, So, in the like name of that love of ours, Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too, And which on warm and cold days I withdrew From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine, Here’s ivy!— take them, as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly, As once Electra her sepulchral urn, And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see What a great heap of grief lay hid in me, And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn Could tread them out to darkness utterly, It might be well perhaps. But if instead Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow The grey dust up,... those laurels on thine head, O My beloved, will not shield thee so, That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred The hair beneath. Stand further off then! Go.

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore, .. Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes, the tears of two.

The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; And this ... this lute and song ... loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear, Because thy name moves right in what they say.

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away.—Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; The Form remains, the Function never dies; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, We Men, who in our morn of youth defied The elements, must vanish;—be it so! Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

His piercing pince-nez. Some dim frieze Hands point to a dim frieze, in the dark night. In the book of his music the corners have straightened: Which owe their presence to our sleeping hands. The ox-blood from the hands which play For fire for warmth for hands for growth Is there room in the room that you room in? Upon his structured tomb: Still they mean something. For the dance And the architecture. Weave among incidents May be portentous to him We are the sleeping fragments of his sky, Wind giving presence to fragments.

Stronger than alcohol, more great than song, deep in whose reeds great elephants decay, I, an island, sail, and my shoes toss on a fragrant evening, fraught with sadness bristling hate. It’s true, I weep too much. Dawns break slow kisses on the eyelids of the sea, what other men sometimes have thought they’ve seen. And since then I’ve been bathing in the poem lifting her shadowy flowers up for me, and hurled by hurricanes to a birdless place the waving flags, nor pass by prison ships O let me burst, and I be lost at sea! and fall on my knees then, womanly.

I like to beat people up absence of passion, principles, love. She murmurs What just popped into my eye was a fiend’s umbrella and if you should come and pinch me now as I go out for coffee . . . as I was saying winter of 18 lumps Days produce life locations to banish 7 up Nomads, my babies, where are you? Life’s My dream which is gunfire in my poem Orange cavities of dreams stir inside “The Poems” Whatever is going to happen is already happening Some people prefer “the interior monologue” I like to beat people up

I What is the flesh and blood compounded of But a few moments in the life of time? This prowling of the cells, litigious love, Wears the long claw of flesh-arguing crime. Consider the first settlers of our bone, Observe how busily they sued the dust, Estopped forever by the last dusted stone. It is a pity that two brothers must Perceive a canker of perennial flower To make them brothers in mortality: Perfect this treason to the murderous hour If you would win the hard identity Of brothers—a long race for men to run Nor quite achieved when the perfection’s won. II Near to me as perfection in the blood And more mysterious far, is this, my brother: A light vaulted into your solitude. It studied burns lest you its rage should smother. It is a flame obscure to any eyes, Most like the fire that warms the deepest grave (The cold grave is the deepest of our lies) To which our blood is the indentured slave: The fire that burns most secretly in you Does not expend you hidden and alone, The studious fire consumes not one, but two— Me also, marrowing the self-same bone. Our property in fire is death in life Flawing the rocky fundament with strife. III Then, brother, you would never think me vain Or rude, if I should mention dignity; Think little of it. Dignity’s the stain Of mortal sin that knows humility. Let me design the hour when you were born Since, if that’s vain, it’s only childlike so: Like an attempting frost on April corn Considerate death would hardly let you go. Reckon the cost—if you would validate Once more our slavery to circumstance Not by contempt of a prescriptive fate But in your bearing towards an hour of chance. It is a part so humble and so proud You’ll think but little of it in your shroud. IV The times have changed. Why do you make a fuss For privilege when there’s no law of form? Who of our kin was pusillanimous, A fine bull galloping into a storm? Why, none; unless you count it arrogance To cultivate humility in pride, To look but casually and half-askance On boots and spurs that went a devil’s ride. There was, remember, a Virginian Who took himself to be brute nature’s law, Cared little what men thought him, a tall man Who meditated calmly what he saw Until he freed his Negroes, lest he be Too strict with nature and than they less free. V Our elder brother whom we had not seen These twenty years until you brought him back From the cyclonic West, where he had been Sent by the shaking fury in the track We know so well, wound in these arteries: You, other brother, I have become strange To you, and you must study ways to seize Mortality, that knows how to derange Corpuscles for designs that it may choose; Your blood is altered by the sudden death Of one who of all persons could not use Life half so well as death. Let’s look beneath That life. Perhaps hers only is our rest— To study this, all lifetime may be best. VI The fire I praise was once perduring flame— Till it snuffs with our generation out; No matter, it’s all one, it’s but a name Not as late honeysuckle half so stout; So think upon it how the fire burns blue, Its hottest, when the flame is all but spent; Thank God the fuel is low, we’ll not renew That length of flame into our firmament; Think too the rooftree crackles and will fall On us, who saw the sacred fury’s height— Seated in her tall chair, with the black shawl From head to foot, burning with motherly light More spectral than November dusk could mix With sunset, to blaze on her pale crucifix. VII This message hastens lest we both go down Scattered, with no character, to death; Death is untutored, with an ignorant frown For precious identities of breath. But you perhaps will say confusion stood, A vulture, near the heart of all our kin: I’ve heard the echoes in a dark tangled wood Yet never saw I a face peering within. These evils being anonymities, We fulminate, in exile from the earth, Aged exclusions of blood memories— Those superstitions of explosive birth; Until there’ll be of us not anything But foolish death, who is confusion’s king. VIII Not power nor the casual hand of God Shall keep us whole in our dissevering air, It is a stink upon this pleasant sod So foul, the hovering buzzard sees it fair; I ask you will it end therefore tonight And the moth tease again the windy flame, Or spiders, eating their loves, hide in the night At last, drowsy with self-devouring shame? Call it the house of Atreus where we live— Which one of us the Greek perplexed with crime Questions the future: bring that lucid sieve To strain the appointed particles of time! Whether by Corinth or by Thebes we go The way is brief, but the fixed doom, not so. IX Captains of industry, your aimless power Awakens harsh velleities of time: Let you, brother, captaining your hour Be zealous that your numbers are all prime, Lest false division with sly mathematic Plunder the inner mansion of the blood, The Thracian, swollen with pride, besiege the Attic— Invader foraging the sacred wood: Yet the prime secret whose simplicity Your towering engine hammers to reduce, Though driven, holds that bulwark of the sea Which breached will turn unspeaking fury loose To drown out him who swears to rectify Infinity, that has nor ear nor eye.