In the soft glow of Victorian-era London, a 32-year-old poet sat to write a letter to a 38-year-old poetess. The letter changed the lives of both of them. It etched a love story in the history of literature. It was Robert Browning who wrote to Elizabeth Barrett. Robert was a poet of rising fame with a bold heart and unshakeable longing. In his hand was a book of Elizabeth Barrett. She was already an admired poetess. Elizabeth’s work touched Robert’s heart. It opened the door of his soul. With a heart full of love and conviction, Robert wrote to Elizabeth, “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett…”
Robert had never met Elizabeth. But her words had already met him in the ache between one heartbeat and the next. Elizabeth was no stranger to pain. Her childhood was marked by a serious illness she developed at fifteen. This seemed to add power and resilience to her literary work. Growing up, she was mostly confined to her room with chronic pain. Elizabeth’s poetry was her source to breathe.
It was the winter of 1845 when Elizabeth received the letter from Robert. She replied, and what followed after that was a storm of approximately 600 letters in a span of 20 days, each unlocking a new chapter in the history of literature. Long pauses, commas, satires, and metaphors grew their love.
This love was not easy to do. Elizabeth’s father, a domineering figure, forbade the relationship. He used Elizabeth’s health issues as a reason to limit her interactions. However, their love knew no bounds. It grew and grew. The lovers eloped to St. Marylebone Parish Church, London, and secretly got married on September 12, 1846.
After a week, the newly wedded poets fled to Florence, Italy, a city of sun and stone. The new chapter of their lives unfolded, but Elizabeth had to pay the price. Her father never spoke to her again. However, in the warm Italian air, her lungs breathed easier. Her poetry deepened. Her heart healed. She wrote for Robert Browning, and only Robert Browning
In their apartment in Florence, she composed a series of 44 love sonnets—raw, trembling, glorious. She called them Sonnets from the Portuguese, disguising them as translations so the world wouldn’t see how personal they were. But Robert knew.
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”
“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach…”
That was Elizabeth’s gift to him—a love so complete, it needed no embellishment. Robert never wrote back with his own sonnet sequence. He didn’t have to. His love was in every look, every hand held, every quiet walk through Florence’s cobbled streets.
In 1861, Elizabeth died in Robert’s arms. He was inconsolable. He left Florence with their son and returned to London. For years, he did not write. He published her complete works, curated her legacy, and made sure her name would never be erased. Robert never remarried. No one else would do.
