The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning
Unconsciously I measure me by them.
Let me forget it; and I cherish most
My love of England — how her name — a word
Of her’s in a strange tongue makes my heart beat! …
. . . . .
Pauline, I could do any thing — not now —
All’s fever — but when calm shall come again —
I am prepared — I have made life my own —
I would not be content with all the change
One frame should feel — but I have gone in thought
Thro’ all conjuncture — I have lived all life
When it is most alive — where strangest fate
New shapes it past surmise — the tales of men
Bit by some curse — or in the grasp of doom
Half-visible and still increasing round,
Or crowning their wide being’s general aim… .
. . . . .
These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend,
As one breathing his weakness to the ear
Of pitying angel — dear as a winter flower.
A slight flower growing alone, and offering
Its frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun,
Yet and confiding, like the triumph
Of a child — and why am I not worthy thee?
. . . . .
I can live all the life of plants, and gaze
Drowsily on the bees that flit and play,
Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill,
Or open in the night of sounds, to look
For the dim stars; I can mount with the bird,
Leaping airily his pyramid of leaves
And twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree,
Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens —
Or like a fish breathe in the morning air
In the misty sun-warm water — or with flowers
And trees can smile in light at the sinking sun,
Just as the storm comes — as a girl would look
On a departing lover — most serene.
Pauline, come with me — see how I could build
A home for us, out of the world; in thought —
I am inspired — come with me, Pauline!
Night, and one single ridge of narrow path
Between the sullen river and the woods
Waving and muttering — for the moonless night
Has shaped them into images of life,
Like the upraising of the giant-ghosts,
Looking on earth to know how their sons fare.
Thou art so close by me, the roughest swell
Of wind in the tree-tops hides not the panting
Of thy soft breasts; no — we will pass to morning —
Morning — the rocks, and vallies, and old woods.
How the sun brightens in the mist, and here, —
Half in the air, like creatures of the place,
Trusting the element — living on high boughs
That swing in the wind — look at the golden spray,
Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract,
Amid the broken rocks — shall we stay here
With the wild hawks? — no, ere the hot noon come
Dive we down — safe; — see this our new retreat
Walled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs,
Dark, tangled, old and green — still sloping down
To a small pool whose waters lie asleep
Amid the trailing boughs turned water plants
And tall trees overarch to keep us in,
Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts,
And in the dreamy water one small group
Of two or three strange trees are got together,
Wondering at all around — as strange beasts herd
Together far from their own land — all wildness —
No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all,
And tongues of bank go shelving in the waters,
Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head,
And old grey stones lie making eddies there;
The wild mice cross them dry-shod — deeper in —
Shut thy soft eyes — now look — still deeper in:
This is the very heart of the woods — all round,
Mountain-like, heaped above us; yet even here
One pond of water gleams — far off the river
Sweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one —
One thin clear sheet has overleaped and wound
Into this silent depth, which gained, it lies
Still, as but let by sufferance; the trees bend
O’er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,
And thro’ their roots long creeping plants stretch out
Their twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,
Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combined
To narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread
It winds, all noiselessly, thro’ the deep wood,
Till thro’ a cleft way, thro’ the moss and stone,
It joins its parent-river with a shout.
Up for the glowing day — leave the old woods:
See, they part, like a ruined arch, the sky!
Nothing but sky appears, so close the root
And grass of the hill-top level with the air —
Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats, laden
With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,
Floating away in the sun in some north sea.
Air, air — fresh life-blood — thin and searching air —
The clear, dear breath of God, that loveth us:
Where small birds reel and winds take their delight.
Water is beautiful, but not like air.
See, where the solid azure waters lie,
Made as of thickened air, and down below,
The fern-ranks, like a forest spread themselves,
As tho’ each pore could feel the element;
Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way —
Float with me there, Pauline, but not like air.
Down the hill — stop — a clump of trees, see, set
On a heap of rocks, which look o’er the far plains,
And envious climbing shrubs would mount to rest,
And peer from their spread boughs. There they wave, looking