Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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A Woman's Shortcomings

She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six, and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried
Oh, each a worthy lover!
They "give her time"; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving;
She will lie to none with her fair red lip:
But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond recalling;
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
From her eyelids rising and falling;
Speaks common words with a blushful air,
Hears bold words, unreproving;
But her silence says - what she never will swear
And love seeks better loving.

Go, lady! Lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer;
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an in-door singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly, on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries -
But dare not call it loving!

Unless you can think, when the song is done,
No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by One,
That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear "For life, for death!"
Oh, fear to call it loving!

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past
Oh, never call it loving!

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When he treads brave on all that is,
Into the world of souls, from this.

"Since sweet the tears, dropped at the door
Of tearless Death, and even before:
Sweet, consecrated evermore.

" What, dost thou judge it a strange thing
That poets, crowned for vanquishing,
Should bear some dust from out the ring?

"Come on with me, come on with me,
And learn in coming: let me free
Thy spirit into verity."

She ceased: her palfrey's paces sent
No separate noises as she went;
'Twas a bee's hum, a little spent.

And while the poet seemed to tread
Along the drowsy noise so made,
The forest heaved up overhead

Its billowy foliage through the air,
And the calm stars did far and spare
o'erswim the masses everywhere

Save when the overtopping pines
Did bar their tremulous light with lines
All fixed and black. Now the moon shines

a broader glory. You may see
The trees grow rarer presently;
The air blows up more fresh and free:

Until they come from dark to light,
And from the forest to the sight
Of the large heaven-heart, bare with night,

a fiery throb in every star,
Those burning arteries that are
The conduits of God's life afar, —

a wild brown moorland underneath,
And four pools breaking up the heath
With white low gleamings, blank as death.

Beside the first pool, near the wood,
a dead tree in set horror stood,
Peeled and disjointed, stark as rood;

Since thunder-stricken, years ago,
Fixed in the spectral strain and throe
Wherewith it struggled from the blow:

a monumental tree, alone,
That will not bend in storms, nor groan,
But break off sudden like a stone.

Its lifeless shadow lies oblique
Upon the pool where, javelin-like,
The star-rays quiver while they strike.

"Drink," said the lady, very still—
"Be holy and cold." He did her will
And drank the starry water chill.

The next pool they came near unto
Was bare of trees; there, only grew
Straight flags, and lilies just a few

Which sullen on the water sate
And leant their faces on the flat,
As weary of the starlight-state.

"Drink," said the lady, grave and slow—
"World's use behoveth thee to know."
He drank the bitter wave below.

The third pool, girt with thorny bushes
And flaunting weeds and reeds and rushes
That winds sang through in mournful gushes,

Was whitely smeared in many a round
By a slow slime; the starlight swound
Over the ghastly light it found.

"Drink," said the lady, sad and slow—
"World's love behoveth thee to know."
He looked to her commanding so;

Her brow was troubled, but her eye
Struck clear to his soul. For all reply
He drank the water suddenly, —

Then, with a deathly sickness, passed
Beside the fourth pool and the last,
Where weights of shadow were downcast

From yew and alder and rank trails
Of nightshade clasping the trunk-scales
And flung across the intervals

From yew to yew: who dares to stoop
Where those dank branches overdroop,
Into his heart the chill strikes up,

He hears a silent gliding coil,
The snakes strain hard against the soil,
His foot slips in their slimy oil,

And toads seem crawling on his hand,
And clinging bats but dimly scanned
Full in his face their wings expand.

A paleness took the poet's cheek:
"Must I drink here?" He seemed to seek
The lady's will with utterance meek:

"Ay, ay," she said, "it so must be;"
(And this time she spake cheerfully)
"Behoves thee know World's cruelty."

He bowed his forehead till his mouth
Curved in the wave, and drank unloth
As if from rivers of the south;

His lips sobbed through the water rank,
His heart paused in him while he drank,
His brain beat heart-like, rose and sank,

And he swooned backward to a dream
Wherein he lay 'twixt gloom and gleam,
With Death and Life at each extreme:

And spiritual thunders, born of soul
Not cloud, did leap from mystic pole
And o'er him roll and counter-roll,

Crushing their echoes reboant
With their own wheels. Did Heaven so grant
His spirit a sign of covenant?

At last came silence. A slow kiss
Did crown his forehead after this;
His eyelids flew back for the bliss—

The lady stood beside his head,
Smiling a thought, with hair dispread;
The moonshine seemed dishevellèd

In her sleek tresses manifold
Like Danaë's in the rain of old
That dripped with melancholy gold:

But she was holy, pale and high
As one who saw an ecstasy
Beyond a foretold agony.

"Rise up!" Said she with voice where song
Eddied through speech, "rise up; be strong:
And learn how right avenges wrong."

The poet rose up on his feet:
He stood before an altar set
For sacrament with vessels meet

And mystic altar-lights which shine
As if their flames were crystalline
Carved flames that would not shrink or pine.

The altar filled the central place
Of a great church, and toward its face
Long aisles did shoot and interlace,

And from it a continuous mist
Of incense (round the edges kissed
By a yellow light of amethyst)

Wound upward slowly and throbbingly,
Cloud within cloud, right silverly,
Cloud above cloud, victoriously, —

Broke full against the archéd roof
And thence refracting eddied off
And floated through the marble woof

Of many a fine-wrought architrave,
Then, poising its white masses brave,
Swept solemnly down aisle and nave

Where, now in dark and now in light,
The countless columns, glimmering white,
Seemed leading out to the Infinite:

Plunged halfway up the shaft, they showed
In that pale shifting incense-cloud
Which flowed them by and overflowed

Till mist and marble seemed to blend
And the whole temple, at the end,
With its own incense to distend, —

The arches like a giant's bow
To bend and slacken, —and below,
The nichéd saints to come and go:

Alone amid the shifting scene
That central altar stood serene
In its clear steadfast taper-sheen.

Then first, the poet was aware
Of a chief angel standing there
Before that altar, in the glare.

His eyes were dreadful, for you saw
That they saw God; his lips and jaw
Grand-made and strong, as Sinai's law

They could enunciate and refrain
From vibratory after-pain,
And his brow's height was sovereign:

On the vast background of his wings
Rises his image, and he flings
From each plumed arc pale glitterings

And fiery flakes (as beateth, more
Or less, the angel-heart) before
And round him upon roof and floor,

Edging with fire the shifting fumes,
While at his side 'twixt lights and glooms
The phantasm of an organ booms.

Extending from which instrument
And angel, right and left-way bent,
The poet's sight grew sentient

Of a strange company around
And toward the altar, pale and bound
With bay above the eyes profound.

Deathful their faces were, and yet
The power of life was in them set—
Never forgot nor to forget:

Sublime significance of mouth,
Dilated nostril full of youth,
And forehead royal with the truth.

These faces were not multiplied
Beyond your count, but side by side
Did front the altar, glorified,

Still as a vision, yet exprest
Full as an action—look and geste
Of buried saint in risen rest.

The poet knew them. Faint and dim
His spirits seemed to sink in him—
Then, like a dolphin, change and swim

The current: these were poets true,
Who died for Beauty as martyrs do
For Truth—the ends being scarcely two.

God's prophets of the Beautiful
These poets were; of iron rule,
The rugged cilix, serge of wool.

Here Homer, with the broad suspense
Of thunderous brows, and lips intense
Of garrulous God-innocence.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb
The crowns ò the world: o eyes sublime
With tears and laughters for all time!

Here Æschylus, the women swooned
To see so awful when he frowned
As the gods did: he standeth crowned.

Euripides, with close and mild
Scholastic lips, that could be wild
And laugh or sob out like a child

Even in the classes. Sophocles,
With that king's-look which down the trees
Followed the dark effigies

Of the lost Theban. Hesiod old,
Who, somewhat blind and deaf and cold,
Cared most for gods and bulls. And bold

Electric Pindar, quick as fear,
With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear
Slant startled eyes that seem to hear

The chariot rounding the last goal,
To hurtle past it in his soul.
And Sappho, with that gloriole

Of ebon hair on calmèd brows—
o poet-woman! None forgoes
The leap, attaining the repose.

Theocritus, with glittering locks
Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks
He watched the visionary flocks.

And Aristophanes, who took
The world with mirth, and laughter-struck
The hollow caves of Thought and woke

The infinite echoes hid in each.
And Virgil: shade of Mantuan beech
Did help the shade of bay to reach

And knit around his forehead high:
For his gods wore less majesty
Than his brown bees hummed deathlessly.

Lucretius, nobler than his mood,
Who dropped his plummet down the broad
Deep universe and said "No God—"

Finding no bottom: he denied
Divinely the divine, and died
Chief poet on the Tiber-side

By grace of God: his face is stern
As one compelled, in spite of scorn,
To teach a truth he would not learn.

And Ossian, dimly seen or guessed;
Once counted greater than the rest,
When mountain-winds blew out his vest.

And Spenser drooped his dreaming head
(With languid sleep-smile you had said
From his own verse engenderèd)

On Ariosto's, till they ran
Their curls in one: the Italian
Shot nimbler heat of bolder man

From his fine lids. And Dante stern
And sweet, whose spirit was an urn
For wine and milk poured out in turn.

Hard-souled Alfieri; and fancy-willed
Boiardo, who with laughter filled
The pauses of the jostled shield.

And Berni, with a hand stretched out
To sleek that storm. And, not without
The wreath he died in and the doubt

He died by, Tasso, bard and lover,
Whose visions were too thin to cover
The face of a false woman over.

And soft Racine; and grave Corneille,
The orator of rhymes, whose wail
Scarce shook his purple. And Petrarch pale,

From whose brain-lighted heart were thrown
a thousand thoughts beneath the sun,
Each lucid with the name of One.

And Camoens, with that look he had,
Compelling India's Genius sad
From the wave through the Lusiad, —

The murmurs of the storm-cape ocean
Indrawn in vibrative emotion
Along the verse. And, while devotion

In his wild eyes fantastic shone
Under the tonsure blown upon
By airs celestial, Calderon.

And bold De Vega, who breathed quick
Verse after verse, till death's old trick
Put pause to life and rhetoric.

And Goethe, with that reaching eye
His soul reached out from, far and high,
And fell from inner entity.

And Schiller, with heroic front
Worthy of Plutarch's kiss upon 't,
Too large for wreath of modern wont.

And Chaucer, with his infantine
Familiar clasp of things divine;
That mark upon his lip is wine.

Here, Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim:
The shapes of suns and stars did swim
Like clouds from them, and granted him

God for sole vision. Cowley, there,
Whose active fancy debonair
Drew straws like amber—foul to fair.

Drayton and Browne, with smiles they drew
From outward nature, still kept new
From their own inward nature true.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben,
Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when
The world was worthy of such men.

And Burns, with pungent passionings
Set in his eyes: deep lyric springs
Are of the fire-mount's issuings.

And Shelley, in his white ideal,
All statue-blind. And Keats the real
Adonis with the hymeneal

Fresh vernal buds half sunk between
His youthful curls, kissed straight and sheen
In his Rome-grave, by Venus queen.

And poor, proud Byron, sad as grave
And salt as life; forlornly brave,
And quivering with the dart he drave.

And visionary Coleridge, who
Did sweep his thoughts as angels do
Their wings with cadence up the Blue.

These poets faced (and many more)
The lighted altar looming o'er
The clouds of incense dim and hoar:

And all their faces, in the lull
Of natural things, looked wonderful
With life and death and deathless rule.

All, still as stone and yet intense;
As if by spirit's vehemence
That stone were carved and not by sense.

But where the heart of each should beat,
There seemed a wound instead of it,
From whence the blood dropped to their feet

Drop after drop—dropped heavily
As century follows century
Into the deep eternity.

Then said the lady—and her word
Came distant, as wide waves were stirred
Between her and the ear that heard, —

"World's use is cold, world's love is vain,
World's cruelty is bitter bane,
But pain is not the fruit of pain.

" Hearken, o poet, whom I led
From the dark wood: dismissing dread,
Now hear this angel in my stead.

"His organ's clavier strikes along
These poets'hearts, sonorous, strong,
They gave him without count of wrong, —

" a diapason whence to guide
Up to God's feet, from these who died,
An anthem fully glorified—

"Whereat God's blessing, Ibarak (=yivarech=)
Breathes back this music, folds it back
About the earth in vapoury rack,

" And men walk in it, crying 'Lo
The world is wider, and we know
The very heavens look brighter so:

"'The stars move statelier round the edge
Of the silver spheres, and give in pledge
Their light for nobler privilege:
" "No little flower but joys or grieves,

Full life is rustling in the sheaves,
Full spirit sweeps the forest-leaves."
"So works this music on the earth,

God so admits it, sends it forth
To add another worth to worth—
" a new creation-bloom that rounds

The old creation and expounds
His Beautiful in tuneful sounds.
"Now hearken!" Then the poet gazed

Upon the angel glorious-faced
Whose hand, majestically raised,
Floated across the organ-keys,

Like a pale moon o'er murmuring seas,
With no touch but with influences:
Then rose and fell (with swell and swound

Of shapeless noises wandering round
a concord which at last they found)
Those mystic keys: the tones were mixed,

Dim, faint, and thrilled and throbbed betwixt
The incomplete and the unfixed:
And therein mighty minds were heard

In mighty musings, inly stirred,
And struggling outward for a word:
Until these surges, having run

This way and that, gave out as one
An Aphroditè of sweet tune,
a Harmony that, finding vent,

Upward in grand ascension went,
Winged to a heavenly argument,
Up, upward like a saint who strips

The shroud back from his eyes and lips,
And rises in apocalypse:
a harmony sublime and plain,

Which cleft (as flying swan, the rain, —
Throwing the drops off with a strain
Of her white wing) those undertones

Of perplext chords, and soared at once
And struck out from the starry thrones
Their several silver octaves as

It passed to God. The music was
Of divine stature; strong to pass:
And those who heard it, understood

Something of life in spirit and blood,
Something of nature's fair and good:
And while it sounded, those great souls

Did thrill as racers at the goals
And burn in all their aureoles;
But she the lady, as vapour-bound,

Stood calmly in the joy of sound,
Like Nature with the showers around:
And when it ceased, the blood which fell

Again, alone grew audible,
Tolling the silence as a bell.
The sovran angel lifted high

His hand, and spake out sovranly:
"Tried poets, hearken and reply!
" Give me true answers. If we grant

That not to suffer, is to want
The conscience of the jubilant, —
"If ignorance of anguish is

But ignorance, and mortals miss
Far prospects, by a level bliss, —
" If, as two colours must be viewed

In a visible image, mortals should
Need good and evil, to see good, —
"If to speak nobly, comprehends

To feel profoundly, —if the ends
Of power and suffering, Nature blends, —
" If poets on the tripod must

Writhe like the Pythian to make just
Their oracles and merit trust, —
"If every vatic word that sweeps

To change the world must pale their lips
And leave their own souls in eclipse, —
" If to search deep the universe

Must pierce the searcher with the curse,
Because that bolt (in man's reverse)
"Was shot to the heart ò the wood and lies

Wedged deepest in the best, —if eyes
That look for visions and surprise
" From influent angels, must shut down

Their eyelids first to sun and moon,
The head asleep upon a stone, —
"If One who did redeem you back,

By His own loss, from final wrack,
Did consecrate by touch and track
" Those temporal sorrows till the taste

Of brackish waters of the waste
Is salt with tears He dropt too fast, —
"If all the crowns of earth must wound

With prickings of the thorns He found, —
If saddest sighs swell sweetest sound, —
" What say ye unto this? —refuse

This baptism in salt water? —choose
Calm breasts, mute lips, and labour loose?
"Or, o ye gifted givers! Ye

Who give your liberal hearts to me
To make the world this harmony,
" Are ye resigned that they be spent

To such world's help? "The Spirits bent
Their awful brows and said" Content. "
Content! It sounded like Amen

Said by a choir of mourning men;
An affirmation full of pain
And patience, —ay, of glorying

And adoration, as a king
Might seal an oath for governing.
Then said the angel—and his face

Lightened abroad until the place
Grew larger for a moment's space, —
The long aisles flashing out in light,

And nave and transept, columns white
And arches crossed, being clear to sight
As if the roof were off and all

Stood in the noon-sun, —" Lo, I call
To other hearts as liberal.
"This pedal strikes out in the air:

My instrument has room to bear
Still fuller strains and perfecter.
" Herein is room, and shall be room

While Time lasts, for new hearts to come
Consummating while they consume.
"What living man will bring a gift

Of his own heart and help to lift
The tune? —The race is to the swift."
So asked the angel. Straight the while,

a company came up the aisle
With measured step and sorted smile;
Cleaving the incense-clouds that rise,

With winking unaccustomed eyes
And love-locks smelling sweet of spice.
One bore his head above the rest

As if the world were dispossessed,
And one did pillow chin on breast,
Right languid, an as he should faint;

One shook his curls across his paint
And moralized on worldly taint;
One, slanting up his face, did wink

The salt rheum to the eyelid's brink,
To think—o gods! Or—not to think.
Some trod out stealthily and slow,

As if the sun would fall in snow
If they walked to instead of fro;
And some, with conscious ambling free,

Did shake their bells right daintily
On hand and foot, for harmony;
And some, composing sudden sighs

In attitudes of point-device,
Rehearsed impromptu agonies.
And when this company drew near

The spirits crowned, it might appear
Submitted to a ghastly fear;
As a sane eye in master-passion

Constrains a maniac to the fashion
Of hideous maniac imitation
In the least geste—the dropping low

ò the lid, the wrinkling of the brow,
Exaggerate with mock and mow, —
So mastered was that company

By the crowned vision utterly,
Swayed to a maniac mockery.
One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached

With Homer's forehead, though he lacked
An inch of any; and one racked
His lower lip with restless tooth,

As Pindar's rushing words forsooth
Were pent behind it; one his smooth
Pink cheeks did rumple passionate

Like Æschylus, and tried to prate
On trolling tongue of fate and fate;
One set her eyes like Sappho's—or

Any light woman's; one forbore
Like Dante, or any man as poor
In mirth, to let a smile undo

His hard-shut lips; and one that drew
Sour humours from his mother, blew
His sunken cheeks out to the size

Of most unnatural jollities,
Because Anacreon looked jest-wise;
So with the rest: it was a sight

a great world-laughter would requite,
Or great world-wrath, with equal right
Out came a speaker from that crowd

To speak for all, in sleek and proud
Exordial periods, while he bowed
His knee before the angel— "Thus,

o angel who hast called for us,
We bring thee service emulous,
" Fit service from sufficient soul,

Hand-service to receive world's dole,
Lip-service in world's ear to roll
"Adjusted concords soft enow

To hear the wine-cups passing, through,
And not too grave to spoil the show:
" Thou, certes, when thou askest more,

o sapient angel, leanest o'er
The window-sill of metaphor.
"To give our hearts up? Fie! That rage

Barbaric antedates the age;
It is not done on any stage.
" Because your scald or gleeman went

With seven or nine-stringed instrument
Upon his back, —must ours be bent?
"We are not pilgrims, by your leave;

No, nor yet martyrs; if we grieve,
It is to rhyme to—summer eve:
" And if we labour, it shall be

As suiteth best with our degree,
In after-dinner reverie. "
More yet that speaker would have said,

Poising between his smiles fair-fed
Each separate phrase till finishèd;
But all the foreheads of those born

And dead true poets flashed with scorn
Betwixt the bay leaves round them worn,
Ay, jetted such brave fire that they,

The new-come, shrank and paled away
Like leaden ashes when the day
Strikes on the hearth. A spirit-blast,

a presence known by power, at last
Took them up mutely: they had passed.
And he our pilgrim-poet saw

Only their places, in deep awe,
What time the angel's smile did draw
His gazing upward. Smiling on,

The angel in the angel shone,
Revealing glory in benison;
Till, ripened in the light which shut

The poet in, his spirit mute
Dropped sudden as a perfect fruit;
He fell before the angel's feet,

Saying," If what is true is sweet,
In something I may compass it:
"For, where my worthiness is poor,

My will stands richly at the door
To pay shortcomings evermore.
" Accept me therefore: not for price

And not for pride my sacrifice
Is tendered, for my soul is nice
"And will beat down those dusty seeds

Of bearded corn if she succeeds
In soaring while the covey feeds.
" I soar, I am drawn up like the lark

To its white cloud—so high my mark,
Albeit my wing is small and dark.
"I ask no wages, seek no fame:

Sew me, for shroud round face and name,
God's banner of the oriflamme.
" I only would have leave to loose

(In tears and blood if so He choose)
Mine inward music out to use:
"I only would be spent—in pain

And loss, perchance, but not in vain—
Upon the sweetness of that strain;
" Only project beyond the bound

Of mine own life, so lost and found,
My voice, and live on in its sound;
"Only embrace and be embraced

By fiery ends, whereby to waste,
And light God's future with my past."
The angel's smile grew more divine,

The mortal speaking; ay, its shine
Swelled fuller, like a choir-note fine,
Till the broad glory round his brow

Did vibrate with the light below;
But what he said I do not know.
Nor know I if the man who prayed,

Rose up accepted, unforbade,
From the church-floor where he was laid, —
Nor if a listening life did run

Through the king-poets, one by one
Rejoicing in a worthy son:
My soul, which might have seen, grew blind

By what it looked on: I can find
No certain count of things behind.
I saw alone, dim, white and grand

As in a dream, the angel's hand
Stretched forth in gesture of command
Straight through the haze. And so, as erst,

a strain more noble than the first
Mused in the organ, and outburst:
With giant march from floor to roof

Rose the full notes, now parted off
In pauses massively aloof
Like measured thunders, now rejoined

In concords of mysterious kind
Which fused together sense and mind,
Now flashing sharp on sharp along

Exultant in a mounting throng,
Now dying off to a low song
Fed upon minors, wavelike sounds

Re-eddying into silver rounds,
Enlarging liberty with bounds:
And every rhythm that seemed to close

Survived in confluent underflows
Symphonious with the next that rose.
Thus the whole strain being multiplied

And greatened, with its glorified
Wings shot abroad from side to side,
Waved backward (as a wind might wave

a Brocken mist and with as brave
Wild roaring) arch and architrave,
Aisle, transept, column, marble wall, —

Then swelling outward, prodigal
Of aspiration beyond thrall,
Soared, and drew up with it the whole

Of this said vision, as a soul
Is raised by a thought. And as a scroll
Of bright devices is unrolled

Still upward with a gradual gold,
So rose the vision manifold,
Angel and organ, and the round

Of spirits, solemnized and crowned;
While the freed clouds of incense wound
Ascending, following in their track,

And glimmering faintly like the rack
ò the moon in her own light cast back.
And as that solemn dream withdrew,

The lady's kiss did fall anew
Cold on the poet's brow as dew.
And that same kiss which bound him first

Beyond the senses, now reversed
Its own law and most subtly pierced
His spirit with the sense of things

Sensual and present. Vanishings
Of glory with Æolian wings
Struck him and passed: the lady's face

Did melt back in the chrysopras
Of the orient morning sky that was
Yet clear of lark and there and so

She melted as a star might do,
Still smiling as she melted slow:
Smiling so slow, he seemed to see

Her smile the last thing, gloriously
Beyond her, far as memory.
Then he looked round: he was alone.

He lay before the breaking sun,
As Jacob at the Bethel stone.
And thought's entangled skein being wound,

He knew the moorland of his swound,
And the pale pools that smeared the ground;
The far wood-pines like offing ships;

The fourth pool's yew anear him drips,
World's cruelty attaints his lips,
And still he tastes it, bitter still;

Through all that glorious possible
He had the sight of present ill.
Yet rising calmly up and slowly

With such a cheer as scorneth folly,
a mild delightsome melancholy,
He journeyed homeward through the wood

And prayed along the solitude
Betwixt the pines, "o God, my God!"
The golden morning's open flowings

Did sway the trees to murmurous bowings,
In metric chant of blessed poems.
And passing homeward through the wood,

He prayed along the solitude,
"Thou, Poet-God, art great and good!
" And though we must have, and have had

Right reason to be earthly sad,
Thou, Poet-God, art great and glad! "

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What was he doing, the great God Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great God Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great God Pan
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great God can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great God Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.

"This is the way," laughed the great God Pan
(Laughed while he sat by the river),
"The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed."
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, o Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, o great God Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great God Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

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A beauty passing the earth's store, —
Walked calmly onward evermore.

His aimless thoughts in metre went,
Like a babe's hand without intent
Drawn down a seven-stringed instrument:

Nor jarred it with his humour as,
With a faint stirring of the grass,
An apparition fair did pass.

He might have feared another time,
But all things fair and strange did chime
With his thoughts then, as rhyme to rhyme.

An angel had not startled him,
Alighted from heaven's burning rim
To breathe from glory in the Dim;

Much less a lady riding slow
Upon a palfrey white as snow,
And smooth as a snow-cloud could go.

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I

The face, which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.

Ii

The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with ' Good day'
Make each day good, is hushed away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

Iii

The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

Iv

And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here,
While the tears drop, my days go on.

V

The world goes whispering to its own,
'This anguish pierces to the bone; '
And tender friends go sighing round,
'What love can ever cure this wound? '
My days go on, my days go on.

Vi

The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss,
And life that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.

Vii

Breath freezes on my lips to moan:
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.

Viii

I knock and cry, —Undone, undone!
Is there no help, no comfort, —none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.

Ix

This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June:
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?

X

No bird am I, to sing in June,
And dare not ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures, —
And yet my days go on, go on.

Xi

I ask less kindness to be done, —
Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deadly touch to these tired feet.
Till days go out which now go on.

Xii

Only to lift the turf unmown
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say'Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on. '

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Aurora Leigh

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! And, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.