‘Tis said that women have been bruised to death
And yet, if once they loved, that love of theirs
Could never be drained out with all their blood:
I’ve heard such things and pondered. Did I indeed
Love once; or did I only worship? Yes,
Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high
Above all actual good or hope of good
or fear of evil, all that could be mine,
I haply set you above love itself…
What was in my thought?
To be your slave, your help, your toy, your tool.
To be your love…I never thought of that:
To give you love…still less. I gave you love?
I think I did not give you anything:
I was but only yours, — upon my knees,
all yours, in soul and body, in head and heart.
It may be I’m not as strong as other women are,
who, torn and crushed, are not undone form love.
It may be I am colder than the dead,
Who, being dead, love always.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
