Mujer extraordinaria por su inteligencia que conquistó con su arte a numerosos autores de la época, entre ellos Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne o William Makepeace Thackeray, Elizabeth Barrett Browning es la mejor poetisa de la época victoriana en Inglaterra y uno de los grandes talentos en lengua inglesa dentro del género lírico, en particular, el amoroso, hecho significado en estos sonetos dedicados a su marido Robert Browning, quien apodaba cariñosamente a Elizabeth mi “pequeña portuguesa”.
Dentro de una bibliografía admirable, “Sonetos De La Portuguesa: Una Celebración Del Amor” (1850) es probablemente su obra más conseguida.
Cuarenta y cuatro poemas con bellos textos amorosos que derrochan sensibilidad, sinceridad y una impresión pasional, agridulce, que se eleva más allá de su propia ubicación sentimental para abarcar múltiples campos del alma femenina desde la perspectiva de una mujer llena de talento.
Estos son, en versión original y tal como los escribió la autora inglesa, tres de los mismos:
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 candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a 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, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
From where thou art or shalt be, there or here;
And this…this lute and song…loved yesterday,
(The singing angels know) are only dear
Because thy name moves right in what they say.
Belovèd, my Belovèd, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
What time I sat alone here in the snow
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice, but, link by link
Went counting all my chains as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand,–why, thus I drink
Of life’s great cup of wonder! Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech,–nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull
Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight.