May 28, 2011

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    THE rain set early in to-night,  
      The sullen wind was soon awake,  
    It tore the elm-tops down for spite,  
      And did its worst to vex the lake:  
      I listen'd with heart fit to break.          5
    When glided in Porphyria; straight  
      She shut the cold out and the storm,  
    And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate  
      Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;  
      Which done, she rose, and from her form   10
    Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,  
      And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied  
    Her hat and let the damp hair fall,  
      And, last, she sat down by my side  
      And call'd me. When no voice replied,   15
    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,  
      And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,   20
    Murmuring how she loved meshe  
      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.   25
    But passion sometimes would prevail,  
      Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain  
    A sudden thought of one so pale  
      For love of her, and all in vain:  
      So, she was come through wind and rain.   30
    Be sure I look'd up at her eyes  
      Happy and proud; at last I knew  
    Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise  
      Made my heart swell, and still it grew  
      While I debated what to do.   35
    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  
      Three times her little throat around,   40
    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  
      Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.   45
    And I untighten'd next the tress  
      About her neck; her cheek once more  
    Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:  
      I propp'd her head up as before,  
      Only, this time my shoulder bore   50
    Her head, which droops upon it still:  
      The smiling rosy little head,  
    So glad it has its utmost will,  
      That all it scorn'd at once is fled,  
      And I, its love, am gain'd instead!   55
    Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how  
      Her darling one wish would be heard.  
    And thus we sit together now,  
      And all night long we have not stirr'd,  
      And yet God has not said a word!   60
    -Robert Browning  

     

    My second favorite poem.