Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning

    The 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 endeavour,
    To set its struggling passion free
    From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
    And give herself to me for ever.
    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 worshipped 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 my 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!

Pippa's Song by Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven
All's right with the world!

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

FERRARA

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
“Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
“Must never hope to reproduce the faint
“Half-flush that dies along her throat;” such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart . . . how shall I say? . . . too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace, all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, good; but thanked
Somehow . . . I know not how . . . as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech, (which I have not), to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
“Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
“Or there exceed the mark”, and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!