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

      Johannes Agricola in Meditation II. — Madhouse Cell

      Porphyria’s Lover

       Table of Contents

      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;

       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 sate 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,

       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;

       So, she was come through wind and rain.

       Be sure I looked up at her eyes

       Proud, very 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

       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,

       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,

       And yet God has not said a word!