Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) Read online

  A brief word about the selection and order of poems for this volume. I have tried to strike a balance between the poems for which Browning is best known (but which are not always his best) and those my own taste leads me to recommend; at times the choice has been hard, nowhere more so than in the exclusion of ‘Bishop Blougram’s Apology’ to make way for ‘A Death in the Desert’. With two exceptions I have chosen only complete poems; Browning’s long poems are not easily broken up, and they are too long to print in their entirety. Readers should be aware of the imbalance this will cause in their impressions of Browning’s work; I can only urge them to try the long poems (especially The Ring and the Book) for themselves. The two exceptions are the song from Pippa Passes containing Browning’s best-known lines, which it seemed perverse to omit; and (prompted by Kenneth Allott’s inclusion of it in his selection, Oxford University Press, 1967) a scene from the same work which does stand up on its own, and is interesting as a rare example of successful dramatic dialogue in Browning. The poems are printed in the order of their first publication, except for ‘Spring Song’, which seemed to me the right note (of elegy, of triumph) on which to end.

  DANIEL KARLIN

  Note on the Text

  The text is that of the two-volume edition of Browning’s poems edited by John Pettigrew and Thomas J. Collins in the Penguin English Poets series (Harmondsworth, 1981). The copy-text used (with minor emendations and corrections) by Pettigrew and Collins is that of the last collected edition which appeared in Browning’s lifetime, the Poetical Works of 1888–9. The poems (except for the last one) are printed in order of publication; the volumes in which they first appeared are identified in the Notes.

  Porphyria’s Lover

  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;

  [10] 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 sat 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,

  [20] 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:

  [30] So, she was come through wind and rain.

  Be sure I looked up at her eyes

  Happy and 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

  [40] 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,

  [50] 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,

  [60] And yet God has not said a word!

  Johannes Agricola in Meditation

  There’s heaven above, and night by night

  I look right through its gorgeous roof;

  No suns and moons though e’er so bright

  Avail to stop me; splendour-proof

  I keep the broods of stars aloof:

  For I intend to get to God,

  For ’tis to God I speed so fast,

  For in God’s breast, my own abode,

  Those shoals of dazzling glory passed,

  [10] I lay my spirit down at last.

  I lie where I have always lain,

  God smiles as he has always smiled;

  Ere suns and moons could wax and wane,

  Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled

  The heavens, God thought on me his child;

  Ordained a life for me, arrayed

  Its circumstances every one

  To the minutest; ay, God said

  This head this hand should rest upon

  [20] Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun.

  And having thus created me,

  Thus rooted me, he bade me grow,

  Guiltless for ever, like a tree

  That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know

  The law by which it prospers so:

  But sure that thought and word and deed

  All go to swell his love for me,

  Me, made because that love had need

  Of something irreversibly

  [30] Pledged solely its content to be.

  Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend,

  No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop!

  I have God’s warrant, could I blend

  All hideous sins, as in a cup,

  To drink the mingled venoms up;

  Secure my nature will convert

  The draught to blossoming gladness fast:

  While sweet dews turn to the gourd’s hurt,

  And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast,

  [40] As from the first its lot was cast.

  For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed

  By unexhausted power to bless,

  I gaze below on hell’s fierce bed,

  And those its waves of flame oppress,

  Swarming in ghastly wretchedness;

  Whose life on earth aspired to be

  One altar-smoke, so pure! – to win

  If not love like God’s love for me,

  At least to keep his anger in;

  [50] And all their striving turned to sin.

  Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white

  With prayer, the broken-hearted nun,

  The martyr, the wan acolyte,

  The incense-swinging child, – undone

  Before God fashioned star or sun!

  God, whom I praise; how could I praise,

  If such as I might understand,

  Make out and reckon on his ways,

  And bargain for his love, and stand,

  [60] Paying a price, at his right hand?

  Song from Pippa Passes

  The year’s at the spring

  And day’s at the morn;

  Morning’s at seven;

  The hill-side’s dew-pearled;

  The lark’s on the wing;

  The snail’s on the thorn:

  God’s in his heaven –

  All’s right with the world!
/>
  Scene from Pippa Passes

  FIRST GIRL: There goes a swallow to Venice – the stout seafarer!

  Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings.

  Let us all wish; you wish first!

  SECOND GIRL: I? This sunset

  To finish.

  THIRD GIRL: That old – somebody I know,

  Greyer and older than my grandfather,

  To give me the same treat he gave last week –

  Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,

  Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling

  The while some folly about how well I fare,

  [10] Let sit and eat my supper quietly:

  Since had he not himself been late this morning

  Detained at – never mind where, – had he not …

  ‘Eh, baggage, had I not!’ –

  SECOND GIRL: How she can lie!

  THIRD GIRL: Look there – by the nails!

  SECOND GIRL: What makes your fingers red?

  THIRD GIRL: Dipping them into wine to write bad words with

  On the bright table: how he laughed!

  FIRST GIRL: My turn.

  Spring’s come and summer’s coming. I would wear

  A long loose gown, down to the feet and hands,

  With plaits here, close about the throat, all day;

  [20] And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed;

  And have new milk to drink, apples to eat,

  Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats … ah, I should say,

  This is away in the fields – miles!

  THIRD GIRL: Say at once

  You’d be at home: she’d always be at home!

  Now comes the story of the farm among

  The cherry orchards, and how April snowed

  White blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool,

  They’ve rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were,

  Twisted your starling’s neck, broken his cage,

  Made a dung-hill of your garden!

  FIRST GIRL: [30] They, destroy

  My garden since I left them? well – perhaps!

  I would have done so: so I hope they have!

  A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall;

  They called it mine, I have forgotten why,

  It must have been there long ere I was born:

  Cric – cric – I think I hear the wasps o’erhead

  Pricking the papers strung to flutter there

  And keep off birds in fruit-time – coarse long papers,

  And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.

  THIRD GIRL: [40] How her mouth twitches! Where was I? – before

  She broke in with her wishes and long gowns

  And wasps – would I be such a fool! – Oh, here!

  This is my way: I answer every one

  Who asks me why I make so much of him –

  (If you say, ‘you love him’ – straight ‘he’ll not be gulled!’)

  ‘He that seduced me when I was a girl

  Thus high – had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,

  Brown, red, white,’ – as the case may be: that pleases!

  See how that beetle burnishes in the path!

  [50] There sparkles he along the dust: and, there –

  Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled at least!

  FIRST GIRL: When I was young, they said if you killed one

  Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend

  Up there, would shine no more that day nor next.

  SECOND GIRL: When you were young? Nor are you young, that’s true.

  How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away!

  Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still?

  No matter, so you keep your curious hair.

  I wish they’d find a way to dye our hair

  [60] Your colour – any lighter tint, indeed,

  Than black: the men say they are sick of black,

  Black eyes, black hair!

  My Last Duchess

  Ferrara

  That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

  Looking as if she were alive. I call

  That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands

  Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

  Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

  ‘Frà Pandolf‘ by design, for never read

  Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

  The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

  But to myself they turned (since none puts by

  [10] The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

  And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

  How such a glance came there; so, not the first

  Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

  Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

  Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps

  Frà Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle laps

  Over my lady’s wrist too much,’ or ‘Paint

  Must never hope to reproduce the faint

  Half-flush that dies along her throat’: such stuff

  [20] Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

  For calling up that spot of joy. She had

  A heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad,

  Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

  She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

  Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

  The dropping of the daylight in the West,

  The bough of cherries some officious fool

  Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

  She rode with round the terrace – all and each

  [30] Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

  Or blush, at least. She thanked men, – good! but thanked

  Somehow – I know not how – as if she ranked

  My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

  With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

  This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

  In speech – (which I have not) – to make your will

  Quite clear to such an one, and say, ‘Just this

  Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

  Or there exceed the mark’ – and if she let

  [40] Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

  Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

  – E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

  Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

  Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

  Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

  Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

  As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

  The company below, then. I repeat,

  The Count your master’s known munificence

  [50] Is ample warrant that no just pretence

  Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

  Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

  At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

  Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

  Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

  Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

  Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

  I

  Gr-r-r – there go, my heart’s abhorrence!

  Water your damned flower-pots, do!

  If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,

  God’s blood, would not mine kill you!

  What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?

  Oh, that rose has prior claims –

  Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?

  Hell dry you up with its flames!

  II

  At the meal we sit together:

  [10] Salve tibi! I must hear

  Wise talk of the kind of weather,

  Sort of season, time of year:

  Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
/>   Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:

  What’s the Latin name for ‘parsley’?

  What’s the Greek name for Swine’s Snout?

  III

  Whew! We’ll have our platter burnished,

  Laid with care on our own shelf!

  With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished,

  [20] 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,

  [30] – 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

  Cross-wise, to my recollection,

  As do I, in Jesu’s praise.

  I the Trinity illustrate,

  Drinking watered orange-pulp –

  In three sips the Arian frustrate;

  [40] While 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,