Robert Browning - The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition

Of two or three strange trees are got together,

Wondering at all around — as strange beasts herd

Together far from their own land — all wildness —

No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all,

And tongues of bank go shelving in the waters,

Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head,

And old grey stones lie making eddies there;

The wild mice cross them dry-shod — deeper in —

Shut thy soft eyes — now look — still deeper in:

This is the very heart of the woods — all round,

Mountain-like, heaped above us; yet even here

One pond of water gleams — far off the river

Sweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one —

One thin clear sheet has overleaped and wound

Into this silent depth, which gained, it lies

Still, as but let by sufferance; the trees bend

O’er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,

And thro’ their roots long creeping plants stretch out

Their twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,

Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combined

To narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread

It winds, all noiselessly, thro’ the deep wood,

Till thro’ a cleft way, thro’ the moss and stone,

It joins its parent-river with a shout.

Up for the glowing day — leave the old woods:

See, they part, like a ruined arch, the sky!

Nothing but sky appears, so close the root

And grass of the hill-top level with the air —

Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats, laden

With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,

Floating away in the sun in some north sea.

Air, air — fresh life-blood — thin and searching air —

The clear, dear breath of God, that loveth us:

Where small birds reel and winds take their delight.

Water is beautiful, but not like air.

See, where the solid azure waters lie,

Made as of thickened air, and down below,

The fern-ranks, like a forest spread themselves,

As tho’ each pore could feel the element;

Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way —

Float with me there, Pauline, but not like air.

Down the hill — stop — a clump of trees, see, set

On a heap of rocks, which look o’er the far plains,

And envious climbing shrubs would mount to rest,

And peer from their spread boughs. There they wave, looking

At the muleteers, who whistle as they go

To the merry chime of their morning bells and all

The little smoking cots, and fields, and banks,

And copses, bright in the sun; my spirit wanders.

Hedge-rows for me — still, living, hedge-rows, where

The bushes close, and clasp above, and keep

Thought in — I am concentrated — I feel; —

But my soul saddens when it looks beyond;

I cannot be immortal, nor taste all.

O God! where does this tend — these straggling aims!

What would I have? what is this “sleep,” which seems

To bound all? can there be a “waking” point

Of crowning life? The soul would never rule —

It would be first in all things — it would have

Its utmost pleasure filled — but that complete

Commanding for commanding sickens it.

The last point that I can trace is, rest beneath

Some better essence than itself — in weakness;

This is “myself” — not what I think should be,

And what is that I hunger for but God?

My God, my God! let me for once look on thee

As tho’ nought else existed: we alone.

And as creation crumbles, my soul’s spark

Expands till I can say, “Even from myself

“I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee;

“I do not plead my rapture in thy works

“For love of thee — or that I feel as one

“Who cannot die — but there is that in me

“Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.”

Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress?

Why have I laboured to put out my life?

Is it not in my nature to adore,

And e’en for all my reason do I not

Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him? Now.

Can I forego the trust that he loves me?

Do I not feel a love which only ONE …

O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed,

I have denied thee calmly — do I not

Pant when I read of thy consummate deeds,

And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash

The brightest gleams of earth’s philosophy?

Do I not shake to hear aught question thee? …

If I am erring save me, madden me,

Take from me powers, and pleasures — let me die

Ages, so I see thee: I am knit round

As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride,

Yet tho’ my wandering dreams have seen all shapes

Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee —

Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee,

In the damp night by weeping Olivet,

Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less —

Or dying with thee on the lonely cross —

Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb!

A mortal, sin’s familiar friend doth here

Avow that he will give all earth’s reward,

But to believe and humbly teach the faith,

In suffering, and poverty, and shame,

Only believing he is not unloved… .

And now, my Pauline, I am thine for ever!

I feel the spirit which has buoyed me up

Deserting me: and old shades gathering on;

Yet while its last light waits, I would say much,

And chiefly, I am glad that I have said

That love which I have ever felt for thee,

But seldom told; our hearts so beat together,

That speech is mockery, but when dark hours come:

And I feel sad; and thou, sweet, deem’st it strange;

A sorrow moves me, thou canst not remove.

Look on this lay I dedicate to thee,

Which thro’ thee I began, and which I end,

Collecting the last gleams to strive to tell

That I am thine, and more than ever now —

That I am sinking fast — yet tho’ I sink

No less I feel that thou hast brought me bliss,

And that I still may hope to win it back.

Thou know’st, dear friend, I could not think all calm,

For wild dreams followed me, and bore me off,

And all was indistinct. Ere one was caught

Another glanced: so dazzled by my wealth,

Knowing not which to leave nor which to choose,

For all my thoughts so floated, nought was fixed —

And then thou said’st a perfect bard was one

Who shadowed out the stages of all life,

And so thou badest me tell this my first stage: —

’Tis done: and even now I feel all dim the shift

Of thought. These are my last thoughts; I discern

Faintly immortal life, and truth, and good.

And why thou must be mine is, that e’en now,

In the dim hush of night — that I have done —

With fears and sad forebodings: I look thro’

And say, “E’en at the last I have her still,

“With her delicious eyes as clear as heaven,

“When rain in a quick shower has beat down mist,

“And clouds float white in the sun like broods of swans.”

How the blood lies upon her cheek, all spread

As thinned by kisses; only in her lips

It wells and pulses like a living thing,

And her neck looks, like marble misted o’er

With love-breath, a dear thing to kiss and love,

Standing beneath me — looking out to me,

As I might kill her and be loved for it.

Love me — love me, Pauline, love nought but me;

Leave me not. All these words are wild and weak,

Believe them not, Pauline. I stooped so low

But to behold thee purer by my side,

To show thou art my breath — my life — a last

Resource — an extreme want: never believe

Aught better could so look to thee, nor seek