Keeping Your Romance Alive
Posted on June 13, 2007 in the Romance in Your Marriage category |
A few years ago a popular television program, The Love Boat, entertained viewers with wonderful stories of that romantic first meeting and subsequent emotionally charged romantic fling on a cruise ship. It was a fantasy world where dreams came true and romance flourished. Today the sight of a cruise ship still evokes memories of romance that was not even our own.
The Love Boat. Close your eyes, enjoy the moment: that first kiss, that tingling first touch, a flirtatious glance, a quick, breathless moment when the spark of romance was suddenly aglow in your heart!
So how do you keep that romance alive? That’s the challenge we address in this blog about romantic relationships. We will offer tips, advice and resources from various authors on a variety of subjects that affect your romantic relaitonships. We will remind you of your “first love” by providing love poems, sonnets and prose such as this one by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”
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.
I cannot but smile as I read it. Ah! Yes! Elizabeth had that romantic touch. But, take a look at her (future) husband’s response written in 1845:
“I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,—and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,—whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a graceful and natural end of the thing.
Since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration—perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter!—but nothing comes of it all—so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew—Oh, how different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat, and prized highly, and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom, and shut up and put away . . . and the book called a ‘Flora,’ besides!
After all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time; because even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give a reason for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought; but in this addressing myself to you—your own self, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogether.
I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart—and I love you too. Do you know I was once not very far from seeing—really seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to me one morning ‘Would you like to see Miss Barrett?’ then he went to announce me,—then he returned . . you were too unwell, and now it is years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some world’s-wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some slight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, and the sight was never to be?
Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself,
Yours ever faithfully,
-
Robert Browning
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