The Norton Anthology of English literature. Volume 2

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: 5 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 is 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 endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 25 And give herself to me forever. 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 worshiped me: surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew 35 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.

1. One of a pair of monologues originally published as "Madhouse Cells." a title that emphasized the speakers abnormal state of mind.

 .

SOLILOQU Y O F TH E SPANIS H CLOISTE R / 125 3 As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again 45 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, 55 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! 183 4 1836,184 2

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

i Gr-r-r�there go, my heart's abhorrence! Water your damned flowerpots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God's blood,1 would not mine kill you! 5 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!

2

At the meal we sit together: io Salve tibi!2 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,3 I doubt: 15 What 's the Latin name for "parsley"?

What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout?4

3

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,

1. An oath (archaic). 3. Abnormal outgrowths on oak trees, used for 2. Hail to thee! (Latin); i.e., "your health!" This tanning. and other speeches in italics in this stanza are the 4. Dandelion (19th-century use), words of Brother Lawrence.

 .

125 4 / ROBERT BROWNING

Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps0 jaws Marked with L. for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!) 4 25 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?5 (That is, if he'd let it show!) 5 When he finishes refection,0 dinner Knife and fork he never lays 35 Cross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesu's praise. I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange pulp� In three sips the Arian6 frustrate; 40 While he drains his at one gulp. 6 Oh, those melons? If he's able We're to have a feast! so nice! One goes to the Abbot's table, All of us get each a slice. 45 How go on your flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange!�And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly! 7 There's a great text in Galatians,7 so Once you trip on it, entails Twenty-nine distinct damnations, One sure, if another fails: If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of heaven as sure can be, 55 Spin him round and send him flying Off to hell, a Manichee?8 8 Or, my scrofulous French novel On gray paper with blunt type!