Teach me, only teach, Love! As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought -
Meet, if thou require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands.
That shall be to-morrow Not to-night: I must bury sorrow Out of sight:
- Must a little weep, Love. (Foolish me!) And so fall asleep, Love Loved by thee.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
I said - Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be - My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave, - I claim Only a memory of the same, - And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions - sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once - And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here! - Thus leant she and lingered-joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive, and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought, - All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And place them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you - poor, sick, old ere your time - Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor - so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!" I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being - had I signed the bond - Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet - she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity, - And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, forever ride?
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
YOUTH AND ART
It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather.
Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed, "They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished."
My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!"
I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master.
We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other's windows.
You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse - nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to.
And I - soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind, And be safe in my corset-lacing.
No harm! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up, As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up:
For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and water-cresses.
Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it?
I did look; sharp as a lynx (And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.
But I think I gave you as good! "That foreign fellow, - who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano?"
Could you say so, and never say, "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes"?
No, no: you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover.
But you meet the Prince at the Board, I'm queen myself at bals-pare, I've married a rich old lord, And you're dubbed knight and an R. A.
Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired, - been happy.
And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA
I wonder do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?
For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go.
Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed Took up the floating weft,
Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles, - blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast!
The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace, And everlasting wash of air - Rome's ghost since her decease.
Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers!
How say you? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our control To love or not to love?
I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours, nor mine - nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the core Of the wound, since wound must be?
I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, - your part, my part In life, for good and ill.
No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth, - I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak - Then the good minute goes.
Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star?
Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern - Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
ONE WAY OF LOVE
All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye.