She wrote an epic poem at only 12 and was, by then, already fluent in at least 6 languages. She inspired the likes of Emily Dickinson (who had a framed portrait of the poetess in her bedroom) and Virginia Woolf in their writing. She was considered by many the spiritual successor of Wordsworth as poet laureate and remains a figurehead of Victorian poetry nowadays. Yet, most people unfortunately only recognise her as the wife of playwright Robert Browning and as the composer of “How do I love thee? let me count the ways”. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, however, was a great mind, and an exquisite poetess whose sonnets will haunt people who love to the point of folly. 

(Fun fact: she was also born 5 miles from Durham city centre, in Coxhoe)

I had read Sonnets from the Portuguese, the poetess’ most acclaimed work, a few years back and I must admit it had not struck me in any particular way. 

They were love sonnets. Not particularly innovative. Just plain old Petrarchan sonnets. Quite cheesy at times too. 

A few days ago, however, I came across Sonnet 32.

The first time that the sun rose on thine oath

To love me, I looked forward to the moon

To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon

And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.

Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;

And, looking on myself, I seemed not one

For such man’s love;—more like an out-of-tune

Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth

To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,

Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.

I did not wrong myself so, but I placed

A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float

’Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,—

And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

At first, I felt bad for her. I really did. She was clearly riddled with self-doubt about a man who, although indubitably a genius himself, had a far inferior literary reputation than that of his wife. When the couple moved to Italy, for example, to Florence, Elizabeth was by far the most sought-after of the two.

And yet there she was, describing herself with this (admittedly incredibly effective) extensive metaphor, comparing herself to an “out-of-tune worn viol, a good singer would be wroth to spoil his song with”. In the last lines, she even goes as far as basically saying “I’m sorry you are stuck with someone as unlovable as me, but you’re so good at everything you somehow love me right. You’re so amazing, I’m sorry for faulting you”. Concerning. 

But this impervious form of loving. Unfazed by any outside opinions or judgement. This blind form of adoration that inevitably concurs with feeling as though you are always the inferior half of the couple. As though he is a god and you are nothing. As though you are unworthy of him and you’re spoiling him with your mere presence. This form of loving is at the very least intriguing, and most people have probably been guilty of it at a certain point or another.

I was specifically stuck on the first line. The ones where she expresses her worry about moving so rapidly in a relationship and how “quick-loving hearts… may quickly loathe”. 

I was prone to reread the collection and so I decided to go find myself a copy of “Sonnets from the Portuguese”.

The title has quite an interesting backstory as well. It was supposed to make it seem like the collection was a translation from Portuguese, as the author feared the sonnets were too personal. However, as a writer in Fraser’s magazine noted, in 1850, “From the Portuguese they may be: but their life and earnestness must prove Barrett Browning either to be the most perfect of all known translators, or to have quickened with her own spirit the framework of another’s thought, and then modestly declined the honour which was really her own.” Basically, she did not fool anyone. 

I spent all afternoon reading the 44 sonnets in the collection. 

Here are my thoughts: 

The sonnets show a wide knowledge of ancient literature to start with, which I had definitely forgotten about. The references to Theocritus in Sonnet 1, Electra in Sonnet 9, and Pindar in Sonnet 19 were a pleasant surprise that helped switch up the tone of the collection a little. What I thought of it 2 years ago remains true to an extent. Elizabeth Barrett Browning is very intense in her portrayal of love which almost comes off as pathetic in some points. However, I think Elizabeth was aware of this herself. After all, as mentioned previously, she was hesitant about publishing the poems because of how intimate they felt.

Additionally, it is permeated by a sense of spirituality and repetitiveness which were a bit of a detractive element in my opinion. But, perhaps, someone with a strong religious sense would probably appreciate them more. Overall, it feels as though every sonnet by itself is incredibly well-crafted, but the overarching depiction that comes across to the reader is one of a madly-in-love woman and, for this very reason, regretfully, I believe no one can truly appreciate their meaning unless they’ve fallen madly in love. And that does not happen often. 

Regardless, “Sonnets from the Portuguese” is quite an accessible as well as intense read and a cornerstone in English and world literature. 

I have to thank Elizabeth Barrett Browning for giving us a collection of poems I will be looking at when, quoting from Sonnet 43, “I love […] to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach.”