—Only a memory of the same,
—And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.
—The Last Ride Together
Ages ago, a lady there,
At the farthest window facing the East,
Asked, “Who rides by with the royal air?”
The bridesmaids’ prattle around her ceased;
She leaned forth, one on either hand;
They saw how the blush of the bride increased—
They felt by its beats her heart expand—
As one at each ear and both in a breath
Whispered, “The Great-Duke Ferdinand.”
—The Statue and the Bust
So, I shall see her in three days
And just one night, but nights are short,
Then two long hours, and that is morn.
See how I come, unchanged, unworn!
Feel, where my life broke off from thine,
How fresh the splinters keep and fine,—
Only a touch and we combine!
—In Three Days
Now, stay ever as thou art!
—In a Gondola
Worth how well, those dark grey 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!
—By the Fire-Side
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
—Porphyria’s Lover
Love, we are in God’s hand.
—Andrea del Sarto
And yet thou art the nobler of us two
—Any Wife to Any Husband
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
—Andrea del Sarto
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.
—By the Fire-Side
I can simply wish I might refute you,
Wish my friend would,—by a word, a wink,—
Bid me stop that foolish mouth,—you brute you!
He keeps absent,—why, I cannot think.
—Fears and Scruples
Saith, he knoweth but one thing,—what he knows?
That God is good and the rest is breath;
Why else is the same styled Sharon’s rose?
Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith.
—The Heretic’s Tragedy
All’s our own, to make the most of, Sweet—
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!
—A Pretty Woman
My love, this is the bitterest, that thou—
Who art all truth, and who dost love me now
As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say—
Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me still
—Any Wife to Any Husband
Where the apple reddens
Never pry—
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.
—A Woman’s Last Word
See, how she looks now, dressed
In a sledging-cap and vest!
‘Tis a huge fur cloak—
Like a reindeer’s yoke
Falls the lappet along the breast:
Sleeves for her arms to rest,
Or to hang, as my Love likes best.
—A Lovers’ Quarrel
An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
—The Italian In England
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun’s heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew. When these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart,
And saw me beckon from the ground.
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast.
—The Italian In England
What should your chamber do?
—With all its rarities that ache
In silence while day lasts, but wake
At night-time and their life renew,
Suspended just to pleasure you
—In a Gondola
And yet—she has not spoke so long!
What if heaven be that, fair and strong
At life’s best, with our eyes upturned
Whither life’s flower is first discerned,
We, fixed so, ever should so abide?
What if we still ride on, we two
With life for ever old yet new
—The Last Ride Together
As still he envied me, so fair she was!
—The Bishop Orders His Tomb
She turned on her side and slept. Just so!
So we resolve on a thing and sleep:
So did the lady, ages ago.
—The Statue and the Bust
Have you found your life distasteful?
My life did and does smack sweet.
Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?
Mine I saved and hold complete.
Do your joys with age diminish?
When mine fail me, I’ll complain.
Must in death your daylight finish?
My sun sets to rise again.
—At the “Mermaid”
Tell me, as lovers should, heart-free,
Something to prove his love of me.
—The Confessional
You like us for a glance, you know–
For a word’s sake
—A Pretty Woman
Would I suffer for him that I love?
—Saul
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee:
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem:
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea:
Breath and bloom, shade and shine,—wonder, wealth, and—how far above them—
Truth, that’s brighter than gem,
Trust, that’s purer than pearl,—
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe—all were for me
In the kiss of one girl.
—Summum Bonum
As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved!
—Saul
All I believed is true!
I am able yet
All I want, to get
By a method as strange as new:
Dare I trust the same to you?
—Mesmerism
Oh, to love less what one has injured! Dove,
Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast—
Shall my heart’s warmth not nurse thee into strength?
Flower I have crushed, shall I not care for thee?
—A Blot In the ‘Scutcheon
Love’s Promise
If I gave him what he praised
Was it strange?
—In a Year
That i
s it.
Our happiness would, as you say, exceed
The whole world’s best of blisses
—A Blot In the ‘Scutcheon
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart
In this my singing.
For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;
The very night is clinging
Closer to Venice’ streets to leave one space
Above me, whence thy face
May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.
—In a Gondola
Oh, the beautiful girl, too white,
Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,
Just where the sea and the Loire unite!
And a boasted name in Brittany
She bore, which I will not write.
Too white, for the flower of life is red:
Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen
Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)
To just see earth, and hardly be seen,
And blossom in heaven instead.
Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair!
One grace that grew to its full on earth:
Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
And her waist want half a girdle’s girth,
But she had her great gold hair.
Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
Freshness and fragrance—floods of it, too!
Gold, did I say? Nay, gold’s mere dross: Here,
Life smiled, “Think what I meant to do!”
And Love sighed, “Fancy my loss!”
So, when she died, it was scarce more strange
Than that, when delicate evening dies,
And you follow its spent sun’s pallid range,
There’s a shoot of colour startles the skies
With sudden, violent change,—
That, while the breath was nearly to seek,
As they put the little cross to her lips,
She changed; a spot came out on her cheek,
A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,
And she broke forth, “I must speak!”
—Gold Hair
I scarce grieve o’er
The past. We’ll love on; you will love me still.
—A Blot In the ‘Scutcheon
First I will pray. Do Thou
That ownest the soul,
Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
For a time, restrain me now!
I admonish me while I may,
Not to squander guilt,
Since require Thou wilt
At my hand its price one day
What the price is, who can say?
—Mesmerism
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
—Meeting at Night
Come what, come will,
You have been happy: take my hand!
—A Blot In the ‘Scutcheon
I need thee still and might miss perchance.
Today is not wholly lost, beside,
With its hope of my lady’s countenance
—The Statue and the Bust
You smile? why, there’s my picture ready made
—Andrea del Sarto
For spring bade the sparrows pair,
And the boys and girls gave guesses
—Youth and Art
How else should love’s perfected noontide follow?
All the dawn promised shall the day perform.
—A Blot In the ‘Scutcheon
I believe in you, but that’s not enough:
Give my conviction a clinch!
—Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha
And my eyes hold her! What is worth
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth?
—In Three Days
One day as the lady saw her youth
Depart, and the silver thread that streaked
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent’s tooth,
The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,—
And wondered who the woman was,
Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,
Fronting her silent in the glass—
“Summon here,” she suddenly said,
“Before the rest of my old self pass.”
—The Statue and the Bust
Through the Valley of Love I went,
In the lovingest spot to abide,
And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,
I found Hate dwelling beside.
And further, I traversed Hate’s grove,
In the hatefullest nook to dwell;
But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love
Where the shadow threefold fell.
—Pippa Passes
Never the time and the place
And the loved one all together!
This path–how soft to pace!
This May–what magic weather!
Where is the loved one’s face?
In a dream that loved one’s face meets mine,
But the house is narrow, the place is bleak
Where, outside, rain and wind combine
With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak,
With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek,
With a malice that marks each word, each sign!
O enemy sly and serpentine,
Uncoil thee from the waking man!
Do I hold the Past
Thus firm and fast
Yet doubt if the Future hold I can?
This path so soft to pace shall lead
Through the magic of May to herself indeed!
Or narrow if needs the house must be,
Outside are the storms and strangers; we—
Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she
—I and she!
—Never the Time and the Place
Can I forgo the trust that he loves me?
—Pauline
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
—The Last Ride Together
I have but to be by thee, and thy hand
Will never let mine go, nor heart withstand
The beating of my heart to reach its place.
When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone?
When cry for the old comfort and find none?
Never, I know! Thy soul is in thy face.
—Any Wife to Any Husband
So, the year’s done with
(Love me for ever!)
All March begun with,
April’s endeavour;
May-wreaths that bound me
June needs must sever;
Now snows fall round me,
Quenching June’s fever—
(Love me for ever!)
—Earth’s Immortalities
I shall never, in the years remaining,
Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues.
Make you music that should all-express me;
So it seems; I stand on my attainment.
This of verse alone, one life allows me;
Verse and nothing else have I to give you;
Other heights in other lives, God willing;
All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love.
—One Word More
Love was the startling thing, the new:
Love was the all-sufficient too;
And seeing that, you see the rest:
As a babe can find its mother’s breast
As well in darkness as in light,
Love shut our eyes, and all seemed right.
—Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day
There they are, my fifty men and women
Naming me the fifty poems finished!
Take them, Love, the book and me together;
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.
—One Word More
Henceforth be loved as heart can love
—The Flight of the Duchess
Think, when our one soul understands
The great Word which makes all things new,
When earth breaks up and heaven expands,
How will the change strike me and you
ln the house not made with hands?
—By the Fire-Side
Shall our lip with the honey be bright?
—Saul
I shall see her in three days
And one night, now the nights are short
—In Three Days
And never the King told the story,
How bringing a glove brought such glory,
But the wife smiled—“His nerves are grown firmer:
“Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.’’
—The Glove
How forget the thrill
Thro’ and thro’ me as I thought, ‘The gladlier
Lives my friend because I love him still!’
—Fears and Scruples
Then we would up and pace,
For a change, about the place,
Each with arm o’er neck:
‘Tis our quarter-deck,
We are seamen in woeful case.
Help in the ocean-space!
Or, if no help, we’ll embrace.
—A Lovers’ Quarrel
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.’
—Pauline
In a minute can lovers exchange a word?
If a word did pass, which I do not think,
Only one out of the thousand heard.
—The Statue and the Bust