The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning

The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition - Robert  Browning


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burnished,

       Laid with care on our own shelf!

       With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished,

       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,

       — 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

       Crosswise, to my recollection,

       As do I, in Jesu’s praise.

       I the Trinity illustrate,

       Drinking watered orange-pulp —

       In three sips the Arian frustrate;

       fWhile 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,

       All of us get each a slice.

       How go on your flowers? None double

       Not one fruit-sort can you spy?

       Strange! — And I, too, at such trouble,

       Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

      VII.

      There’s a great text in Galatians,

       Once you trip on it, entails

       Twenty-nine distinct damnations,

       One sure, if another fails:

       If I trip him just a-dying,

       Sure of heaven as sure can be,

       Spin him round and send him flying

       Off to Hell, a Manichee?

      VIII.

      Or, my scrofulous French novel

       On grey paper with blunt type!

       Simply glance at it, you grovel

       Hand and foot in Belial’s gripe:

       If I double down its pages

       At the woeful sixteenth print,

       When he gathers his greengages,

       Ope a sieve and slip it in’t?

      IX.

      Or, there’s Satan! — one might venture

       Pledge one’s soul to him, yet leave

       Such a flaw in the indenture

       As he’d miss till, past retrieve,

       Blasted lay that rose-acacia

       We’re so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine …

       ‘St, there’s Vespers! Plena gratiâ

       Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r — you swine!

      In a Gondola

       Table of Contents

      He sings.

       I SEND my heart up to thee, all my heart

       In this my singing.

       For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;

       The very night is clinging

       Closer to Venice’ streets to leave one space

       Above me, whence thy face

       May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.

       She speaks.

       Say after me, and try to say

       My very words, as if each word

       Came from you of your own accord,

       In your own voice, in your own way:

       “This woman’s heart and soul and brain

       “Are mine as much as this gold chain

       “She bids me wear; which” (say again)

       “I choose to make by cherishing

       “A precious thing, or choose to fling

       “Over the boat-side, ring by ring.”

       And yet once more say … no word more!

       Since words are only words. Give o’er!

       Unless you call me, all the same,

       Familiarly by my pet name,

       Which if the Three should hear you call,

       And me reply to, would proclaim

       At once our secret to them all.

       Ask of me, too, command me, blame —

       Do, break down the partition-wall

       ‘Twixt us, the daylight world beholds

       Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!

       What’s left but — all of me to take?

       I am the Three’s: prevent them, slake

       Your thirst! ’Tis said, the Arab sage,

       In practising with gems, can loose

       Their subtle spirit in his cruce

       And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,

       Leave them my ashes when thy use

       Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!

       He sings.

      I.

      Past we glide, and past, and past!

       What’s that poor Agnese doing

       Where they make the shutters fast?

       Grey Zanobi’s just a-wooing

       To his couch the purchased bride:

       Past we glide!

      II.

      Past we glide, and past, and past!

       Why’s the Pucci Palace flaring

       Like a beacon to the blast?

       Guests by hundreds, not one caring

       If the dear host’s neck were wried:

       Past we glide!

       She sings.

      I.

      The moth’s kiss, first!

       Kiss me as if you made believe

       You were not sure, this eve,

       How my face, your flower, had pursed

       Its petals up; so, here and there

       You brush it, till I grow aware

       Who wants me, and wide open burst.

      II.

      The bee’s kiss, now!

       Kiss me as if you entered gay

       My heart at some noonday,

       A bud that dares not disallow

      


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