The Write Thing

I am not normally a very good poetry reader. Had I specialized in literature exclusively, I might have not taken the most daring of all paths. Dealing with the complexity of verse, rhyme and meaning all combined into a unique expression that must trigger its own eternity, I confess myself powerless. However, there are moments of being, as Woolf would put it, that do merit poetry. Actually, no form of prose would be on a par with the quality that poetic perfection can attain. Over the past few days, my soul has been drawn to this kind of food. To put it bluntly, exquisite poetry is like oysters in a world of prosaic corned beef (not that I don’t like prose or corned beef, but the cases of caviar-tasting prose are quite rare, and one must go too far back in time to find them). So my soul pleaded for me to feed her gourmet literature…and I did. One spoonful at a time. How did I achieve this task? Usually the way I go about it, especially being in the Anglophone world as I am now, is to do a hunt through local bookstores and let my nose drive straight to the poetry shelves. I did. And there were many authors, a mountain of books to peruse almost frantically in search of that group of (a)symmetrically-spread lines that would beckon in recognition. Usually that is the way it happens. Poems choose me, I don’t really look for anything. My eyes stopped on the yellow cover of the book, and the name jumped forward, straight into my arms. I opened the odd page, and here it was. Ms. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, ladies and gentlemen, showing her mastery and carving her fire in my soul with the touch of her magic wand:

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.