Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Robert Browning. 18121889720. Porphyria’s Lover
THE rain set early in to-night, | |
The sullen wind was soon awake, | |
It tore the elm-tops down for spite, | |
And did its worst to vex the lake: | |
I listen’d with heart fit to break. | 5 |
When glided in Porphyria; straight | |
She shut the cold out and the storm, | |
And kneel’d and made the cheerless grate | |
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; | |
Which done, she rose, and from her form | 10 |
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, | |
And laid her soil’d gloves by, untied | |
Her hat and let the damp hair fall, | |
And, last, she sat down by my side | |
And call’d me. When no voice replied, | 15 |
She put my arm about her waist, | |
And made her smooth white shoulder bare, | |
And all her yellow hair displaced, | |
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, | |
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair, | 20 |
Murmuring how she loved me—she | |
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour, | |
To set its struggling passion free | |
From pride, and vainer ties dissever, | |
And give herself to me for ever. | 25 |
But passion sometimes would prevail, | |
Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain | |
A sudden thought of one so pale | |
For love of her, and all in vain: | |
So, she was come through wind and rain. | 30 |
Be sure I look’d up at her eyes | |
Happy and proud; at last I knew | |
Porphyria worshipp’d me; surprise | |
Made my heart swell, and still it grew | |
While I debated what to do. | 35 |
That moment she was mine, mine, fair, | |
Perfectly pure and good: I found | |
A thing to do, and all her hair | |
In one long yellow string I wound | |
Three times her little throat around, | 40 |
And strangled her. No pain felt she; | |
I am quite sure she felt no pain. | |
As a shut bud that holds a bee, | |
I warily oped her lids: again | |
Laugh’d the blue eyes without a stain. | 45 |
And I untighten’d next the tress | |
About her neck; her cheek once more | |
Blush’d bright beneath my burning kiss: | |
I propp’d her head up as before, | |
Only, this time my shoulder bore | 50 |
Her head, which droops upon it still: | |
The smiling rosy little head, | |
So glad it has its utmost will, | |
That all it scorn’d at once is fled, | |
And I, its love, am gain’d instead! | 55 |
Porphyria’s love: she guess’d not how | |
Her darling one wish would be heard. | |
And thus we sit together now, | |
And all night long we have not stirr’d, | |
And yet God has not said a word! | 60 |