Poem by Elizabeth Barrett-Browning

Adequacy

NOW, by the verdure on thy thousand hills,
Beloved England, doth the earth appear
Quite good enough for men to overbear
The will of God in, with rebellious wills !
We cannot say the morning-sun fulfils
Ingloriously its course, nor that the clear
Strong stars without significance insphere
Our habitation: we, meantime, our ills
Heap up against this good and lift a cry
Against this work-day world, this ill-spread feast,
As if ourselves were better certainly
Than what we come to. Maker and High Priest,
I ask thee not my joys to multiply,--
Only to make me worthier of the least. 

1. To Flush, My Dog
2. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 30. I see thine image through my tears to-night
3. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 20. Belovëd, my Belovëd, when I think
4. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 12. Indeed this very love which is my boast
5. Sonnets from the Portuguese. 35. If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

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