by: Robert Browning (1812-1889)

      HE 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 endeavor,
      To set its struggling passion free
      From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
      And give herself to me forever.
      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 worshiped 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 by 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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