28.
Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine,
Your heart anticipate my heart,
You must be just before, in fine,
See and make me see, for your part,
New depths of the divine!
—
St. 28. “The conviction of the eternity of marriage meets us
again and again in Browning’s poems; e.g., ‘Prospice’,
‘Any Wife to any Husband’, ‘The Epilogue to Fifine’.”
The union between two complementary souls cannot be dissolved.
“Love is all, and Death is nought!”
29.
But who could have expected this
When we two drew together first
Just for the obvious human bliss,
To satisfy life’s daily thirst
With a thing men seldom miss?
30.
Come back with me to the first of all,
Let us lean and love it over again,
Let us now forget and now recall,
Break the rosary in a pearly rain,
And gather what we let fall!
31.
What did I say?—that a small bird sings
All day long, save when a brown pair
Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings
Strained to a bell: ‘gainst noonday glare
You count the streaks and rings.
—
St. 31. Here he returns to the subject broken off at St. 21.
32.
But at afternoon or almost eve
‘Tis better; then the silence grows
To that degree, you half believe
It must get rid of what it knows,
Its bosom does so heave.
33.
Hither we walked then, side by side,
Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,
And still I questioned or replied,
While my heart, convulsed to really speak,
Lay choking in its pride.
34.
Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,
And pity and praise the chapel sweet,
And care about the fresco’s loss,
And wish for our souls a like retreat,
And wonder at the moss.
35.
Stoop and kneel on the settle under,
Look through the window’s grated square:
Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,
The cross is down and the altar bare,
As if thieves don’t fear thunder.
36.
We stoop and look in through the grate,
See the little porch and rustic door,
Read duly the dead builder’s date;
Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,
Take the path again—but wait!
37.
Oh moment one and infinite!
The water slips o’er stock and stone;
The West is tender, hardly bright:
How gray at once is the evening grown—
One star, its chrysolite!
38.
We two stood there with never a third,
But each by each, as each knew well:
The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,
The lights and the shades made up a spell
Till the trouble grew and stirred.
— St. 37, 38. “Mr. Browning’s most characteristic feeling for nature
appears in his rendering of those aspects of sky, or earth, or sea, of
sunset, or noonday, or dawn, which seem to acquire some sudden and
passionate significance; which seem to be charged with some spiritual
secret eager for disclosure; in his rendering of those moments which
betray the passion at the heart of things, which thrill and tingle with
prophetic fire. When lightning searches for the guilty lovers, Ottima and
Sebald {in ‘Pippa Passes’}, like an angelic sword plunged into the gloom,
when the tender twilight with its one chrysolite star, grows aware, and
the light and shade make up a spell, and the forests by their mystery, and
sound, and silence, mingle together two human lives forever {‘By the
Fireside’}, when the apparition of the moon-rainbow appears gloriously
after storm, and Christ is in his heaven {‘Christmas Eve’}, when to David
the stars shoot out the pain of pent knowledge and in the grey of the
hills at morning there dwells a gathered intensity {‘Saul’},—then
nature rises from her sweet ways of use and wont, and shows herself the
Priestess, the Pythoness, the Divinity which she is. Or rather, through
nature, the Spirit of God addresses itself to the spirit of man.”—Edward
Dowden.
39.
Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
And the little less, and what worlds away!
How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,
Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play,
And life be a proof of this!
40.
Had she willed it, still had stood the screen
So slight, so sure, ‘twixt my love and her:
I could fix her face with a guard between,
And find her soul as when friends confer,
Friends—lovers that might have been.
41.
For my heart had a touch of the woodland time,
Wanting to sleep now over its best.
Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,
But bring to the last leaf no such test!
“Hold the last fast!” runs the rhyme.
42.
For a chance to make your little much,
To gain a lover and lose a friend,
Venture the tree and a myriad such,
When nothing you mar but the year can mend:
But a last leaf—fear to touch!
43.
Yet should it unfasten itself and fall
Eddying down till it find your face
At some slight wind—best chance of all!
Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place
You trembled to forestall!
44.
Worth how well, those dark gray eyes,
That hair so dark and dear, how worth
That a man should strive and agonize,
And taste a veriest hell on earth
For the hope of such a prize!
45.
You might have turned and tried a man,
Set him a space to weary and wear,
And prove which suited more your plan,
His best of hope or his worst despair,
Yet end as he began.
46.
But you spared me this, like the heart you are,
And filled my empty heart at a word.
If two lives join, there is oft a scar,
They are one and one, with a shadowy third;
One near one is too far.
47.
A moment after, and hands unseen
Were hanging the night around us fast;
But we knew that a bar was broken between
Life and life: we were mixed at last
In spite of the mortal screen.
48.
The forests had done it; there they stood;
We caught for a moment the powers at play:
They had mingled us so, for once and good,
Their work was done—we might go or stay,
They relapsed to their ancient mood.
49.
How the world is made for each of us!
How all we perceive and know in it
Tends to some moment’s product thus,
When a soul declares itself—to wit,
By its fruit, the thing it does!
— St. 49. “Those periods of life which appear most full of moral
purpose to Mr. Tennyson, are periods of protracted self-control, and those
moments stand eminent in life in which the spirit has struggled
victoriously in the cause of conscience against impulse and desire. With
Mr. Browning the moments are most glorious in which the obscure tendency
of many years has been revealed by the lightning of sudden passion, or in
which a resolution that changes the current of life has been taken in
reliance upon that insight which vivid emotion bestows; and those periods
of our history are charged most fully with moral purpose, which take their
direction from moments such as these. . . . In such a moment the somewhat
dull youth of ‘The Inn Album’ rises into the justiciary of the Highest; in
such a moment Polyxena with her right woman’s-manliness, discovers to
Charles his regal duty, and infuses into her weaker husband, her own
courage of heart {‘King Victor and King Charles’}; and rejoicing in the
remembrance of a moment of high devotion which determined the issues of a
life, the speaker of ‘By the Fireside’ exclaims,— ‘How the world is
made for each of us!’” etc.—Edward Dowden.
50.
Be hate that fruit, or love that fruit,
It forwards the general deed of man,
And each of the Many helps to recruit
The life of the race by a general plan;
Each living his own, to boot.
51.
I am named and known by that moment’s feat;
There took my station and degree;
So grew my own small life complete,
As nature obtained her best of me—
One born to love you, sweet!
52.
And to watch you sink by the fireside now
Back again, as you mutely sit
Musing by fire-light, that great brow
And the spirit-small hand propping it,
Yonder, my heart knows how!
53.
So, earth has gained by one man the more,
And the gain of earth must be heaven’s gain too;
And the whole is well worth thinking o’er
When autumn comes: which I mean to do
One day, as I said before.
Prospice.
—
* ‘Prospice’ (look forward) is a challenge to spiritual
conflict, exultant with the certainty of victory, glowing
with the prospective joy of reunion with one whom death has
sent before.—Mrs. Orr.
—
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall, {10}
Though a battle’s to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears
Of pain, darkness, and cold. {20}
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute’s at end,
And the elements’ rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
—
25. first a peace out of pain: original reading, “first a peace,
then a joy”.
Amphibian.
1.
The fancy I had to-day,
Fancy which turned a fear!
I swam far out in the bay,
Since waves laughed warm and clear.
2.
I lay and looked at the sun,
The noon-sun looked at me:
Between us two, no one
Live creature, that I could see.
3.
Yes! There came floating by
Me, who lay floating too,
Such a strange butterfly!
Creature as dear as new:
4.
Because the membraned wings
So wonderful, so wide,
So sun-suffused, were things
Like soul and naught beside.
5.
A handbreadth over head!
All of the sea my own,
It owned the sky instead;
Both of us were alone.
6.
I never shall join its flight,
For naught buoys flesh in air.
If it touch the sea—goodnight!
Death sure and swift waits there.
7.
Can the insect feel the better
For watching the uncouth play
Of limbs that slip the fetter,
Pretend as they were not clay?
8.
Undoubtedly I rejoice
That the air comports so well
With a creature which had the choice
Of the land once. Who can tell?
9.
What if a certain soul
Which early slipped its sheath,
And has for its home the whole
Of heaven, thus look beneath,
10.
Thus watch one who, in the world,
Both lives and likes life’s way,
Nor wishes the wings unfurled
That sleep in the worm, they say?
11.
But sometimes when the weather
Is blue, and warm waves tempt
To free one’s self of tether,
And try a life exempt
12.
From worldly noise and dust,
In the sphere which overbrims
With passion and thought,—why, just
Unable to fly, one swims!
13.
By passion and thought upborne,
One smiles to one’s self—“They fare
Scarce better, they need not scorn
Our sea, who live in the air!”
14.
Emancipate through passion
And thought, with sea for sky,
We substitute, in a fashion,
For heaven—poetry:
—
St. 14. for: instead of.
15.
Which sea, to all intent,
Gives flesh such noon-disport
As a finer element
Affords the spirit-sort.
16.
Whatever they are, we seem:
Imagine the thing they know;
All deeds they do, we dream;
Can heaven be else but so?
17.
And meantime, yonder streak
Meets the horizon’s verge;
That is the land, to seek
If we tire or dread the surge:
—
St. 17. We can return from the sea of passion and thought,
that is, poetry, or a deep spiritual state, to the solid
land again, of material fact.
18.
Land the solid and safe—
To welcome again (confess!)
When, high and dry, we chafe
The body, and don the dress.
—
St. 18. Man, in his earth life, cannot always be “high
contemplative”, and indulge in “brave translunary things”;
he must welcome again, it must be confessed, “land the solid
and safe”. “Other heights in other lives, God willing”
(‘One Word More’).
19.
Does she look, pity, wonder
At one who mimics flight,
Swims—heaven above, sea under,
Yet always earth in sight?
—
St. 19. does she: the “certain soul” in 9th St., “which
early slipped its sheath”.
James Lee’s Wife.
I. James Lee’s Wife speaks at the Window.
—
* In the original ed., 1864, the heading to this section
was ‘At the Window’; changed in ed. of 1868.
—
1.
Ah, Love, but a day,
And the world has changed!
The sun’s away,
And the bird estranged;
The wind has dropped,
And the sky’s deranged:
Summer has stopped.
— St. 1. Ah, Love, but a day: Rev. H. J. Bulkeley, in his paper on
‘James Lee’s Wife’ (‘Browning Soc. Papers’, iv., p. 457), explains, “One
day’s absence from him has caused the world to change.” It’s better to
understand that something has occurred to cause the world to change in a
single day; that James Lee has made some new revelation of himself, which
causes the wife’s heart to have misgivings, and with these misgivings
comes the eager desire expressed in St. 3, to show her love, when he
returns, more strongly than ever.
2.
Look in my eyes!
Wilt thou change too?
Should I fear surprise?
Shall I find aught new
In the old and dear,
In the good and true,
With the changing year?
3.
Thou art a man,
But I am thy love.
For the lake, its swan;
For the dell, its dove;
And for thee—(oh, haste!)
Me, to bend above,
Me, to hold embraced.
II. By the Fireside.
1.
Is all our fire of shipwreck wood,
Oak and pine?
Oh, for the ills half-understood,
The dim dead woe
Long ago
Befallen this bitter coast of France!
Well, poor sailors took their chance;
I take mine.
2.
A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot
O’er the sea;
Do sailors eye the casement—mute
Drenched and stark,
From their bark—
And envy, gnash their teeth for hate
O’ the warm safe house and happy freight
—Thee and me?
3.
God help you, sailors, at your need!
Spare the curse!
For some ships, safe in port indeed,
Rot and rust,
Run to dust,
All through worms i’ the wood, which crept,
Gnawed our hearts out while we slept:
That is worse.
4.
Who lived here before us two?
Old-world pairs.
Did a woman ever—would I knew!—
Watch the man
With whom began
Love’s voyage full-sail,—(now, gnash your teeth!)
When planks start, open hell beneath
Unawares?
III. In the Doorway.
1.
The swallow has set her six young on the rail,
And looks seaward:
The water’s in stripes like a snake, olive-pale
To the leeward,—
On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind.
“Good fortune departs, and disaster’s behind”,—
Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail!
—
St. 1. Note the truth of color in vv. 3-5.
2.
Our fig-tree, that leaned for the saltness, has furled
Her five fingers,
Each leaf like a hand opened wide to the world
Where there lingers
No glint of the gold, Summer sent for her sake:
How the vines writhe in rows, each impaled on its stake!
My heart shrivels up and my spirit shrinks curled.
— St. 2. her five fingers: referring to the shape of the fig-leaf.
3.
Yet here are we two; we have love, house enough,
With the field there,
This house of four rooms, that field red and rough,
Though it yield there,
For the rabbit that robs, scarce a blade or a bent;
If a magpie alight now, it seems an event;
And they both will be gone at November’s rebuff.
— St. 3. a bent: a bit of coarse grass; A.-S. ‘beonet’, an adduced
form; Ger. ‘binse’.
4.
But why must cold spread? but wherefore bring change
To the spirit,
God meant should mate his with an infinite range,
And inherit
His power to put life in the darkness and cold?
Oh, live and love worthily, bear and be bold!
Whom Summer made friends of, let Winter estrange!
— St. 4. Whom Summer made friends of, etc.: i.e., let Winter
(Adversity) estrange those whom Summer (Prosperity) made friends of, but
let it not estrange us.
IV. Along the Beach.
1.
I will be quiet and talk with you,
And reason why you are wrong.
You wanted my love—is that much true?
And so I did love, so I do:
What has come of it all along?
2.
I took you—how could I otherwise?
For a world to me, and more;
For all, love greatens and glorifies
Till God’s a-glow, to the loving eyes,
In what was mere earth before.
—
St. 2. love greatens and glorifies: see the poem,
“Wanting is—what?”
3.
Yes, earth—yes, mere ignoble earth!
Now do I misstate, mistake?
Do I wrong your weakness and call it worth?
Expect all harvest, dread no dearth,
Seal my sense up for your sake?
4.
Oh Love, Love, no, Love! not so, indeed
You were just weak earth, I knew:
With much in you waste, with many a weed,
And plenty of passions run to seed,
But a little good grain too.
5.
And such as you were, I took you for mine:
Did not you find me yours,
To watch the olive and wait the vine,
And wonder when rivers of oil and wine
Would flow, as the Book assures?
— St. 5. yours, to watch the olive and wait the vine: “olive” and
“vine” are used metaphorically for the capabilities of her husband’s
nature.
6.
Well, and if none of these good things came,
What did the failure prove?
The man was my whole world, all the same,
With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame,
And, either or both, to love.
— St. 6. The failure of fruit in her husband proved the absoluteness
of her love, proved that he was her all, notwithstanding.
7.
Yet this turns now to a fault—there! there!
That I do love, watch too long,
And wait too well, and weary and wear;
And ‘tis all an old story, and my despair
Fit subject for some new song:
— St. 7. Yet this turns now to a fault: i.e., her watching the olive
and waiting the vine of his nature. there! there!: I’ve come out plainly
with the fact.
8.
“How the light, light love, he has wings to fly
At suspicion of a bond:
My wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-bye,
Which will turn up next in a laughing eye,
And why should you look beyond?”
— St. 8. bond: refers to what is said in St. 7; why should you look
beyond?: i.e., beyond a laughing eye, which does not “watch” and “wait”,
and thus “weary” and “wear”.
V. On the Cliff.
1.
I leaned on the turf,
I looked at a rock
Left dry by the surf;
For the turf, to call it grass were to mock:
Dead to the roots, so deep was done
The work of the summer sun.
2.
And the rock lay flat
As an anvil’s face:
No iron like that!
Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace:
Sunshine outside, but ice at the core,
Death’s altar by the lone shore.
3.
On the turf, sprang gay
With his films of blue,
No cricket, I’ll say,
But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too,
The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight,
Real fairy, with wings all right.
— St. 3. No cricket, I’ll say: but to my lively admiration, a
warhorse, barded and chanfroned too: see Webster’s Dict., s.v.
“chamfrain”. {also chamfron: armor for a horse’s head}.
4.
On the rock, they scorch
Like a drop of fire
From a brandished torch,
Fall two red fans of a butterfly:
No turf, no rock,—in their ugly stead,
See, wonderful blue and red!
— St. 4. they: i.e., the ‘two red fans’. no turf, no rock: i.e., the
eye is taken up entirely with cricket and butterfly; blue and red refer
respectively to cricket and butterfly.
5.
Is it not so
With the minds of men?
The level and low,
The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then
With such a blue and red grace, not theirs,
Love settling unawares!
— St. 5. Love: settling on the minds of men, the level and low, the
burnt and bare, is compared to the cricket and the butterfly settling on
the turf and the rock.
VI. Reading a Book under the Cliff.
—
* In the original ed., 1864, the heading to this section
was ‘Under the Cliff’; changed in ed. of 1868.
—
1.
“Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no?
Which needs the other’s office, thou or I?
Dost want to be disburthened of a woe,
And can, in truth, my voice untie
Its links, and let it go?
2.
“Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be righted,
Entrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear!
No tongue can mend such pleadings; faith, requited
With falsehood,—love, at last aware
Of scorn,—hopes, early blighted,—
3.
“We have them; but I know not any tone
So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow:
Dost think men would go mad without a moan,
If they knew any way to borrow
A pathos like thy own?
4.
“Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the sighs? The one
So long escaping from lips starved and blue,
That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun
Stretches her length; her foot comes through
The straw she shivers on;
5.
“You had not thought she was so tall: and spent,
Her shrunk lids open, her lean fingers shut
Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent
The clammy palm; then all is mute:
That way, the spirit went.
6.
“Or wouldst thou rather that I understand
Thy will to help me?—like the dog I found
Once, pacing sad this solitary strand,
Who would not take my food, poor hound,
But whined, and licked my hand.”
— St. 1-6. See foot-note to the Argument of this section.
7.
All this, and more, comes from some young man’s pride
Of power to see,—in failure and mistake,
Relinquishment, disgrace, on every side,—
Merely examples for his sake,
Helps to his path untried:
8.
Instances he must—simply recognize?
Oh, more than so!—must, with a learner’s zeal,
Make doubly prominent, twice emphasize,
By added touches that reveal
The god in babe’s disguise.
9.
Oh, he knows what defeat means, and the rest!
Himself the undefeated that shall be:
Failure, disgrace, he flings them you to test,—
His triumph, in eternity
Too plainly manifest!
— St. 7-9. She reflects, ironically and sarcastically, upon the
confidence of the young poet, resulting from his immaturity, in his future
triumph over all obstacles. Inexperienced as he is, he feels himself the
god in babe’s disguise, etc. He will learn after a while what the wind
means in its moaning. The train of thought in St. 11-16 is presented in
the Argument.
10.
Whence, judge if he learn forthwith what the wind
Means in its moaning—by the happy prompt
Instinctive way of youth, I mean; for kind
Calm years, exacting their accompt
Of pain, mature the mind:
11.
And some midsummer morning, at the lull
Just about daybreak, as he looks across
A sparkling foreign country, wonderful
To the sea’s edge for gloom and gloss,
Next minute must annul,—
12.
Then, when the wind begins among the vines,
So low, so low, what shall it say but this?
“Here is the change beginning, here the lines
Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss
The limit time assigns.”
13.
Nothing can be as it has been before;
Better, so call it, only not the same.
To draw one beauty into our hearts’ core,
And keep it changeless! such our claim;
So answered,—Never more!
14.
Simple? Why this is the old woe o’ the world;
Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die.
Rise with it, then! Rejoice that man is hurled
From change to change unceasingly,
His soul’s wings never furled!
15.
That’s a new question; still replies the fact,
Nothing endures: the wind moans, saying so;
We moan in acquiescence: there’s life’s pact,
Perhaps probation—do I know?
God does: endure his act!
16.
Only, for man, how bitter not to grave
On his soul’s hands’ palms one fair good wise thing
Just as he grasped it! For himself, death’s wave;
While time first washes—ah, the sting!—
O’er all he’d sink to save.
VII. Among the Rocks.
1.
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
2.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
VIII. Beside the Drawing-Board.
1.
“As like as a Hand to another Hand!”
Whoever said that foolish thing,
Could not have studied to understand
The counsels of God in fashioning,
Out of the infinite love of his heart,
This Hand, whose beauty I praise, apart
From the world of wonder left to praise,
If I tried to learn the other ways
Of love, in its skill, or love, in its power.
“As like as a Hand to another Hand”: {10}
Who said that, never took his stand,
Found and followed, like me, an hour,
The beauty in this,—how free, how fine
To fear, almost,—of the limit-line!
As I looked at this, and learned and drew,
Drew and learned, and looked again,
While fast the happy minutes flew,
Its beauty mounted into my brain,
And a fancy seized me; I was fain
To efface my work, begin anew, {20}
Kiss what before I only drew;
Ay, laying the red chalk ‘twixt my lips,
With soul to help if the mere lips failed,
I kissed all right where the drawing ailed,
Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips
Still from one’s soulless finger-tips.
— * Lines 27-87 {below—the rest of this section except the
last two lines} were added in the edition of 1868; they clear up the
obscurity of this section of the poem, as it stood in the original edition
of 1864. —
2.
‘Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing,
From Hand live once, dead long ago:
Princess-like it wears the ring
To fancy’s eye, by which we know {30}
That here at length a master found
His match, a proud lone soul its mate,
As soaring genius sank to ground
And pencil could not emulate
The beauty in this,—how free, how fine
To fear almost!—of the limit-line.
Long ago the god, like me
The worm, learned, each in our degree:
Looked and loved, learned and drew,
Drew and learned and loved again, {40}
While fast the happy minutes flew,
Till beauty mounted into his brain
And on the finger which outvied
His art he placed the ring that’s there,
Still by fancy’s eye descried,
In token of a marriage rare:
For him on earth, his art’s despair,
For him in heaven, his soul’s fit bride.
3.
Little girl with the poor coarse hand
I turned from to a cold clay cast— {50}
I have my lesson, understand
The worth of flesh and blood at last!
Nothing but beauty in a Hand?
Because he could not change the hue,
Mend the lines and make them true
To this which met his soul’s demand,—
Would Da Vinci turn from you?
I hear him laugh my woes to scorn—
“The fool forsooth is all forlorn
Because the beauty, she thinks best, {60}
Lived long ago or was never born,—
Because no beauty bears the test
In this rough peasant Hand! Confessed
‘Art is null and study void!’
So sayest thou? So said not I,
Who threw the faulty pencil by,
And years instead of hours employed,
Learning the veritable use
Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath
Lines and hue of the outer sheath, {70}
If haply I might reproduce
One motive of the mechanism,
Flesh and bone and nerve that make
The poorest coarsest human hand
An object worthy to be scanned
A whole life long for their sole sake.
Shall earth and the cramped moment-space
Yield the heavenly crowning grace?
Now the parts and then the whole!
Who art thou, with stinted soul {80}
And stunted body, thus to cry
‘I love,—shall that be life’s strait dole?
I must live beloved or die!’
This peasant hand that spins the wool
And bakes the bread, why lives it on,
Poor and coarse with beauty gone,—
What use survives the beauty? Fool!”
Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand!
I have my lesson, shall understand.
IX. On Deck.
1.
There is nothing to remember in me,
Nothing I ever said with a grace,
Nothing I did that you care to see,
Nothing I was that deserves a place
In your mind, now I leave you, set you free.
— St. 1. Nothing I did that you care to see: refers to her art-work.
2.
Conceded! In turn, concede to me,
Such things have been as a mutual flame.
Your soul’s locked fast; but, love for a key,
You might let it loose, till I grew the same
In your eyes, as in mine you stand: strange plea!
3.
For then, then, what would it matter to me
That I was the harsh, ill-favored one?
We both should be like as pea and pea;
It was ever so since the world begun:
So, let me proceed with my reverie.
—
St. 3. Here it is indicated that she had not the personal charms
which were needed to maintain her husband’s interest.
A pretty face was more to him than a deep loving soul.
4.
How strange it were if you had all me,
As I have all you in my heart and brain,
You, whose least word brought gloom or glee,
Who never lifted the hand in vain
Will hold mine yet, from over the sea!
5.
Strange, if a face, when you thought of me,
Rose like your own face present now,
With eyes as dear in their due degree,
Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow,
Till you saw yourself, while you cried “‘Tis She!”
6.
Well, you may, you must, set down to me
Love that was life, life that was love;
A tenure of breath at your lips’ decree,
A passion to stand as your thoughts approve,
A rapture to fall where your foot might be.
— St. 6. vv. 3-5 express the entire devotion and submissiveness of
her love.