ise with any. Mrs. Browning
belonged to no particular country; the world was inscribed upon the
banner under which she fought. Wrong was her enemy; against this she
wrestled, in whatever part of the globe it was to be found."

Three years after her marriage her only son was born. The Italians
ever after called her "the mother of the beautiful child." And now
some of her ablest and strongest work was done. Her _Casa Guidi
Windows_ appeared in 1851. It is the story of the struggle for Italian
liberty. In the same volume were published the _Portuguese Sonnets_,
really her own love-life. It would be difficult to find any thing more
beautiful than these.

"First time he kissed me he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write,
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,'
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half-missed
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, 'My love, my own!'

* * * * *

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 every day'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 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 of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."

Mrs. Browning's next great poem, in 1856, was _Aurora Leigh_, a novel
in blank verse, "the most mature," she says in the preface, "of my
works, and the one into which my highest convictions upon Life and Art
have entered." Walter Savage Landor said of it: "In many pages there
is the wild imagination of Shakespeare. I had no idea that any one in
this age was capable of such poetry."

For fifteen years