Free Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) by Robert Browning Page A

was born and lived,
    Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house,
    Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know,
    And yet was … what I said nor choose repeat,
    And must have so avouched himself, in fact,
    In hearing of this very Lazarus
    Who saith – but why all this of what he saith?
    Why write of trivial matters, things of price
    Calling at every moment for remark?
    [280] I noticed on the margin of a pool
    Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort,
    Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange!
         Thy pardon for this long and tedious case,
    Which, now that I review it, needs must seem
    Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth!
    Nor I myself discern in what is writ
    Good cause for the peculiar interest
    And awe indeed this man has touched me with.
    Perhaps the journey’s end, the weariness
    [290] Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus:
    I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills
    Like an old lion’s cheek teeth. Out there came
    A moon made like a face with certain spots
    Multiform, manifold and menacing:
    Then a wind rose behind me. So we met
    In this old sleepy town at unaware,
    The man and I. I send thee what is writ.
    Regard it as a chance, a matter risked
    To this ambiguous Syrian – he may lose,
    [300] Or steal, or give it thee with equal good.
    Jerusalem’s repose shall make amends
    For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine;
    Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell!
         The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?
    So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too –
    So, through the thunder comes a human voice
    Saying, ‘O heart I made, a heart beats here!
    Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself!
    Thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine,
    [310] But love I gave thee, with myself to love,
    And thou must love me who have died for thee!’
    The madman saith He said so: it is strange.

Mesmerism
    I
    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?
    II
    If at night, when doors are shut,
And the wood-worm picks,
And the death-watch ticks,
    And the bar has a flag of smut,
    [10] And a cat’s in the water-butt –
    III
    And the socket floats and flares,
And the house-beams groan,
And a foot unknown
    Is surmised on the garret-stairs,
    And the locks slip unawares –
    IV
    And the spider, to serve his ends,
By a sudden thread,
Arms and legs outspread,
    On the table’s midst descends,
    [20] Comes to find, God knows what friends! –
    V
    If since eve drew in, I say,
I have sat and brought
(So to speak) my thought
    To bear on the woman away,
    Till I felt my hair turn grey –
    VI
    Till I seemed to have and hold,
In the vacancy
’Twixt the wall and me,
    From the hair-plait’s chestnut gold
    [30] To the foot in its muslin fold –
    VII
    Have and hold, then and there,
Her, from head to foot,
Breathing and mute,
    Passive and yet aware,
    In the grasp of my steady stare –
    VIII
    Hold and have, there and then,
All her body and soul
That completes my whole,
    All that women add to men,
    [40] In the clutch of my steady ken –
    IX
    Having and holding, till
I imprint her fast
On the void at last
    As the sun does whom he will
    By the calotypist’s skill –
    X
    Then, – if my heart’s strength serve,
And through all and each
Of the veils I reach
    To her soul and never swerve,
    [50] Knitting an iron nerve –
    XI
    Command her soul to advance
And inform the shape
Which has made escape
    And before my countenance
    Answers me glance for glance –
    XII
    I, still with a gesture fit
Of my hands that best
Do my soul’s behest,
    Pointing the power from it,
    [60] While myself do steadfast sit –
    XIII
    Steadfast and still the same
On my object bent,
While the hands give vent
    To my ardour and my aim
    And break into very flame –
    XIV
    Then I reach, I must believe,
Not her soul in vain,
For to me again
    It reaches, and past retrieve
    [70] Is wound in the toils I weave;
    XV
    And must follow as I require,
As befits a thrall,
Bringing flesh