Porphyria's Lover

Robert Browning

1812 to 1889

Track 1

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She shut the cold out and the storm,

The smiling rosy little head,

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And give herself to me for ever.

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

For love of her, and all in vain:

Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

And, last, she sat down by my side

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

I propped her head up as before,

But passion sometimes would prevail,

While I debated what to do.

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And thus we sit together now,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

She put my arm about her waist,

And called me. When no voice replied,

The rain set early in to-night,

Three times her little throat around,

I warily oped her lids: again

I listened with heart fit to break.

And yet God has not said a word!

Her head, which droops upon it still:

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

To set its struggling passion free

And all night long we have not stirred,

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Which done, she rose, and from her form

So, she was come through wind and rain.

So glad it has its utmost will,

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

The sullen wind was soon awake,

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

When glided in Porphyria; straight

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

Murmuring how she loved me — she

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria worshipped me; surprise

A sudden thought of one so pale

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 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;
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,
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 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.
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
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,
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,
And yet God has not said a word!

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Porphyria's Lover

Robert Browning

1812 to 1889

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