The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning
My soul, where nought is changed, and incense rolls
Around the altar — only God is gone,
And some dark spirit sitteth in His seat!
So I passed through the temple: and to me
Knelt troops of shadows; and they cried, “Hail, king!
“We serve thee now, and thou shalt serve no more!
“Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!”
And I said, “Are ye strong — let fancy bear me
“Far from the past.” — And I was borne away
As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,
O’er deserts, towers, and forests, I being calm;
And I said, “I have nursed up energies,
“They will prey on me.” And a band knelt low,
And cried, “Lord, we are here, and we will make
“A way for thee — in thine appointed life
“O look on us!” And I said, “Ye will worship
“Me; but my heart must worship too.” They shouted,
“Thyself — thou art our king!” So I stood there
Smiling …
And buoyant and rejoicing was the spirit
With which I looked out how to end my days;
I felt once more myself — my powers were mine;
I found that youth or health so lifted me,
That, spite of all life’s vanity, no grief
Came nigh me — I must ever be lighthearted;
And that this feeling was the only veil
Betwixt me and despair: so if age came,
I should be as a wreck linked to a soul
Yet fluttering, or mind-broken, and aware
Of my decay. So a long summer morn
Found me; and e’er noon came, I had resolved
No age should come on me, ere youth’s hopes went,
For I would wear myself out — like that morn
Which wasted not a sunbeam — every joy
I would make mine, and die; and thus I sought
To chain my spirit down, which I had fed
With thoughts of fame. I said, the troubled life
Of genius seen so bright when working forth
Some trusted end, seems sad, when all in vain —
Most sad, when men have parted with all joy
For their wild fancy’s sake, which waited first,
As an obedient spirit, when delight
Came not with her alone, but alters soon,
Coming darkened, seldom, hasting to depart,
Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.
But I shall never lose her; she will live
Brighter for such seclusion — I but catch
A hue, a glance of what I sing; so pain
Is linked with pleasure, for I ne’er may tell
The radiant sights which dazzle me; but now
They shall be all my own, and let them fade
Untold — others shall rise as fair, as fast.
And when all’s done, the few dim gleams transferred, —
(For a new thought sprung up — that it were well
To leave all shadowy hopes, and weave such lays
As would encircle me with praise and love;
So I should not die utterly — I should bring
One branch from the gold forest, like the night
Of old tales, witnessing I had been there,) —
And when all’s done, how vain seems e’en success,
And all the influence poets have o’er men!
’Tis a fine thing that one, weak as myself,
Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words
He utters in his solitude shall move
Men like a swift wind — that tho’ he be forgotten,
Fair eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreams
Of love come true in happier frames than his.
Ay, the still night brought thoughts like these, but morn
Came, and the mockery again laughed out
At hollow praises, and smiles, almost sneers;
And my soul’s idol seemed to whisper me
To dwell with him and his unhonoured name —
And I well knew my spirit, that would be
First in the struggle, and again would make
All bow to it; and I would sink again.
. . . . .
And then know that this curse will come on us,
To see our idols perish — we may wither,
Nor marvel — we are clay; but our low fate
Should not extend them, whom trustingly,
We sent before into Time’s yawning gulf,
To face what e’er may lurk in darkness there —
To see the painter’s glory pass, and feel
Sweet music move us not as once, or worst,
To see decaying wits ere the frail body
Decays. Nought makes me trust in love so really,
As the delight of the contented lowness
With which I gaze on souls I’d keep for ever
In beauty — I’d be sad to equal them;
I’d feed their fame e’en from my heart’s best blood,
Withering unseen, that they might flourish still.
. . . . .
Pauline, my sweet friend, thou dost not forget
How this mood swayed me, when thou first wert mine,
When I had set myself to live this life,
Defying all opinion. Ere thou camest
I was most happy, sweet, for old delights
Had come like birds again; music, my life,
I nourished more than ever, and old lore
Loved for itself, and all it shows — the king
Treading the purple calmly to his death,
— While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk,
The giant shades of fate, silently flitting,
Pile the dim outline of the coming doom,
— And him sitting alone in blood, while friends
Are hunting far in the sunshine; and the boy,
With his white breast and brow and clustering curls
Streaked with his mother’s blood, and striving hard
To tell his story ere his reason goes,
And when I loved thee, as I’ve loved so oft,
Thou lovedst me, and I wondered, and looked in
My heart to find some feeling like such love,