Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (18611907)Sonnet: True to myself am I, and false to all
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Fear, sorrow, love, constrain us till we die.
But when the lips betray the spirit’s cry,
The will, that should be sovereign, is a thrall.
Therefore let terror slay me, ere I call
For aid of men. Let grief begrudge a sigh.
“Are you afraid?”—“unhappy?” “No!” The lie
About the shrinking truth stands like a wall.
“And have you loved?” “No, never.” All the while,
The heart within my flesh is turned to stone.
Yea, none the less that I account it vile,
The heart within my heart makes speechless moan,
And when they see one face, one face alone,
The stern eyes of the soul are moved to smile.