All are not taken; there are left behind Living Belovèds, tender looks to bring And make the daylight still a happy thing, And tender voices, to make soft the wind: But if it were not so, if I could find No love in all this world for comforting, Nor any path but hollowly did ring Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoin'd; And if, before those sepulchres unmoving I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) Crying 'Where are ye, O my loved and loving?' I know a voice would sound, 'Daughter, I am. Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?'
Return to the Elizabeth Barrett Browning library , or . . . Read the next poem; De Profundis