Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861)

To E. J. H.

THEY bid me sing to thee,

Thou golden-haired and silver-voicëd child

With lips by no worse sigh than sleep’s defiled—

With eyes unknowing how tears dim the sight,

And feet all trembling at the new delight

Treaders of earth to be!

Ah no! the lark may bring

A song to thee from out the morning cloud,

The merry river from its lilies bowed,

The brisk rain from the trees, the lucky wind

That half doth make its music, half doth find,—

But I—I may not sing.

How could I think it right,

New-comer on our earth as, Sweet, thou art,

To bring a verse from out an human heart

Made heavy with accumulated tears,

And cross with such amount of weary years

Thy day-sum of delight?

Even if the verse were said,

Thou, who wouldst clap thy tiny hands to hear

The wind or rain, gay bird or river clear,

Wouldst, at that sound of sad humanities,

Upturn thy bright uncomprehending eyes

And bid me play instead.

Therefore no song of mine,—

But prayer in place of singing; prayer that would

Commend thee to the new-creating God

Whose gift is childhood’s heart without its stain

Of weakness, ignorance, and changing vain—

That gift of God be thine!

So wilt thou aye be young,

In lovelier childhood than thy shining brow

And pretty winning accents make thee now:

Yea, sweeter than this scarce articulate sound

(How sweet!) of “father,” “mother,” shall be found

The ABBA on thy tongue.

And so, as years shall chase

Each other’s shadows, thou wilt less resemble

Thy fellows of the earth who toil and tremble,

Than him thou seëst not, thine angel bold

Yet meek, whose ever-lifted eyes behold

The Ever-loving’s face.