A brief word about the selection and order of poems for this volume. I have tried to strike a balance between the poems for which Browning is best known (but which are not always his best) and those my own taste leads me to recommend; at times the choice has been hard, nowhere more so than in the exclusion of ‘Bishop Blougram’s Apology’ to make way for ‘A Death in the Desert’. With two exceptions I have chosen only complete poems; Browning’s long poems are not easily broken up, and they are too long to print in their entirety. Readers should be aware of the imbalance this will cause in their impressions of Browning’s work; I can only urge them to try the long poems (especially The Ring and the Book) for themselves. The two exceptions are the song from Pippa Passes containing Browning’s best-known lines, which it seemed perverse to omit; and (prompted by Kenneth Allott’s inclusion of it in his selection, Oxford University Press, 1967) a scene from the same work which does stand up on its own, and is interesting as a rare example of successful dramatic dialogue in Browning. The poems are printed in the order of their first publication, except for ‘Spring Song’, which seemed to me the right note (of elegy, of triumph) on which to end.
DANIEL KARLIN
Note on the Text
The text is that of the two-volume edition of Browning’s poems edited by John Pettigrew and Thomas J. Collins in the Penguin English Poets series (Harmondsworth, 1981). The copy-text used (with minor emendations and corrections) by Pettigrew and Collins is that of the last collected edition which appeared in Browning’s lifetime, the Poetical Works of 1888–9. The poems (except for the last one) are printed in order of publication; the volumes in which they first appeared are identified in the Notes.
Porphyria’s Lover
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
[10] Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
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,
[20] And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
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.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
[30] So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
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
[40] Three times her little throat around,
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
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
[50] Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
[60] And yet God has not said a word!
Johannes Agricola in Meditation
There’s heaven above, and night by night
I look right through its gorgeous roof;
No suns and moons though e’er so bright
Avail to stop me; splendour-proof
I keep the broods of stars aloof:
For I intend to get to God,
For ’tis to God I speed so fast,
For in God’s breast, my own abode,
Those shoals of dazzling glory passed,
[10] I lay my spirit down at last.
I lie where I have always lain,
God smiles as he has always smiled;
Ere suns and moons could wax and wane,
The heavens, God thought on me his child;
Ordained a life for me, arrayed
Its circumstances every one
To the minutest; ay, God said
This head this hand should rest upon
[20] Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun.
And having thus created me,
Thus rooted me, he bade me grow,
Guiltless for ever, like a tree
That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know
The law by which it prospers so:
But sure that thought and word and deed
All go to swell his love for me,
Me, made because that love had need
Of something irreversibly
[30] Pledged solely its content to be.
Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend,
No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop!
I have God’s warrant, could I blend
All hideous sins, as in a cup,
To drink the mingled venoms up;
Secure my nature will convert
The draught to blossoming gladness fast:
While sweet dews turn to the gourd’s hurt,
And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast,
[40] As from the first its lot was cast.
For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed
By unexhausted power to bless,
I gaze below on hell’s fierce bed,
And those its waves of flame oppress,
Swarming in ghastly wretchedness;
Whose life on earth aspired to be
One altar-smoke, so pure! – to win
If not love like God’s love for me,
At least to keep his anger in;
[50] And all their striving turned to sin.
Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white
With prayer, the broken-hearted nun,
The martyr, the wan acolyte,
The incense-swinging child, – undone
Before God fashioned star or sun!
God, whom I praise; how could I praise,
If such as I might understand,
Make out and reckon on his ways,
And bargain for his love, and stand,
[60] Paying a price, at his right hand?
Song from Pippa Passes
The year’s at the spring
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
God’s in his heaven –
All’s right with the world!
Scene from Pippa Passes
FIRST GIRL: There goes a swallow to Venice – the stout seafarer!
Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings.
Let us all wish; you wish first!
SECOND GIRL: I? This sunset
To finish.
THIRD GIRL: That old – somebody I know,
Greyer and older than my grandfather,
To give me the same treat he gave last week –
Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,
Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling
The while some folly about how well I fare,
[10] Let sit and eat my supper quietly:
Since had he not himself been late this morning
Detained at – never mind where, – had he not …
‘Eh, baggage, had I not!’ –
SECOND GIRL: How she can lie!
THIRD GIRL: Look there – by the nails!
SECOND GIRL: What makes your fingers red?
THIRD GIRL: Dipping them into wine to write bad words with
On the bright table: how he laughed!
FIRST GIRL: My turn.
Spring’s come and summer’s coming. I would wear
A long loose gown, down to the feet and hands,
With plaits here, close about the throat, all day;
[20] And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed;
And have new milk to drink, apples to eat,
Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats … ah, I should say,
This is away in the fields – miles!
THIRD GIRL: Say at once
You’d be at home: she’d always be at home!
Now comes the story of the farm among
The cherry orchards, and how April snowed
White blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool,
They’ve rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were,
Twisted your starling’s neck, broken his cage,
Made a dung-hill of your garden!
FIRST GIRL: [30] They, destroy
My garden since I left them? well – perhaps!
I would have done so: so I hope they have!
A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall;
They called it mine, I have forgotten why,
It must have been there long ere I was born:
Cric – cric – I think I hear the wasps o’erhead
Pricking the papers strung to flutter there
And keep off birds in fruit-time – coarse long papers,
And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.
THIRD GIRL: [40] How her mouth twitches! Where was I? – before
She broke in with her wishes and long gowns
And wasps – would I be such a fool! – Oh, here!
This is my way: I answer every one
Who asks me why I make so much of him –
(If you say, ‘you love him’ – straight ‘he’ll not be gulled!’)
‘He that seduced me when I was a girl
Thus high – had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,
Brown, red, white,’ – as the case may be: that pleases!
See how that beetle burnishes in the path!
[50] There sparkles he along the dust: and, there –
Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled at least!
FIRST GIRL: When I was young, they said if you killed one
Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend
Up there, would shine no more that day nor next.
SECOND GIRL: When you were young? Nor are you young, that’s true.
How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away!
Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still?
No matter, so you keep your curious hair.
I wish they’d find a way to dye our hair
[60] Your colour – any lighter tint, indeed,
Than black: the men say they are sick of black,
Black eyes, black hair!
My Last Duchess
Ferrara
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
‘Frà Pandolf‘ by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
[10] The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,’ or ‘Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat’: such stuff
[20] Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace – all and each
[30] Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, – good! but thanked
Somehow – I know not how – as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech – (which I have not) – to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, ‘Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark’ – and if she let
[40] Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
– E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
[50] Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister
I
Gr-r-r – there go, my heart’s abhorrence!
Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
God’s blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
Oh, that rose has prior claims –
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
Hell dry you up with its flames!
II
At the meal we sit together:
[10] Salve tibi! I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather,
Sort of season, time of year:
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:
What’s the Latin name for ‘parsley’?
What’s the Greek name for Swine’s Snout?
III
Whew! We’ll have our platter burnished,
Laid with care on our own shelf!
With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished,
[20] And a goblet for ourself,
Rinsed like something sacrificial
Ere ’tis fit to touch our chaps –
Marked with L. for our initial!
(He-he! There his lily snaps!)
IV
Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores
Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories,
Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
[30] – Can’t I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as ’twere a Barbary corsair’s?
(That is, if he’d let it show!)
V
When he finishes refection,
Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise, to my recollection,
As do I, in Jesu’s praise.
I the Trinity illustrate,
Drinking watered orange-pulp –
In three sips the Arian frustrate;
[40] While he drains his at one gulp.
VI
Oh, those melons? If he’s able
We’re to have a feast! so nice!
One goes to the Abbot’s table,