Wednesday, November 25, 2009

How Do I Love Thee

Did you know that there are two love poems titled “How Do I Love Thee?” You are probably familiar with Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s version, but there is a second written by Wilfred Owen. Mr. Owen was called by some the premier war poet of World War One, writing extensively on the horrors of trench and gas warfare. And yet, even in the midst of such human misery and suffering, he was able to pen a love poem. This, to me, speaks most eloquently of the power of the human spirit, even in the face of the unimaginable. So, without further ado, allow me to present to you both versions of “How Do I Love Thee?”

How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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 candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the 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, all of my life! - and, if God choose
I shall but love thee better after death.

In sharp contrast to Ms. Browning’s pastoral prose is Mr. Owen’s verse, born out of, or perhaps in defiance of, the pain and trauma he suffered during the war. His voice is that of a man humbled and broken, yet determined to love, for he knows that no matter the cost, love is the only worthwhile pursuit and can blossom out of any and all circumstance.


How Do I Love Thee? by Wilfred Owen

I cannot woo thee as the lion his mate,
With proud parade and fierce prestige of presence;
Nor thy fleet fancy may I captivate
With pastoral attitudes in flowery pleasance;
Nor will I kneeling court thee with sedate
And comfortable plans of husbandhood;
Nor file before thee as a candidate…
I cannot woo thee as a lover would.

To wrest thy hand from rivals, iron-gloved,
Or cheat them by craft, I am not clever.
But I do love thee even as Shakespeare loved,
Most gently wild, and desperately for ever,
Full-hearted, grave, and manfully in vain,
With thought, high pain, and ever vaster pain.

I think am losing my marbles...thinking of such things as love...the undying kind at that because who can trust a human being's heart?...who can fathom it?...it may all be kiwani!!
It must be the silence...the general lack of things to dig my teeth into...

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