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.Or leave a kiss but in the cupAnd I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much hon’ring thee As giving it a hope that thereIt could not withered be; But thou thereon did’st only breathe,And sent’st it back to me,Since when it grows and smells, I swearNot of itself, but thee. Sonnet 43 Elizabeth Barrett Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of being and ideal grace.I love thee to the level of every day’sMost 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 the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints. I love thee with the breath

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