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Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Sonnet XXXI: Thou Comest!
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Thou comest! all is said without a word. 
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do 
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through 
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred 
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred 
In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue 
The sin most, but the occasion—that we two 
Should for a moment stand unministered 
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close, 
Thou dovelike help! and, when my fears would rise, 
With thy broad heart serenely interpose: 
Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies 
These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those, 
Like callow birds left desert to the skies.
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