Poems

by Robert Browning (1812-1889)

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad Fra Pandolf chanced to say Her mantle laps
Oh, to be in England, Over my lady's wrist too much,'' or Paint
Now that Aprils there, Must never hope to reproduce the faint
And whoever wakes in England Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuff
Sees, some morning, unaware, Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
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That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf For calling up that spot of joy. She had
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Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, A heart---how shall I say?---too soon made glad,
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While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England - Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
now! She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
And after April, when May follows, Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
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And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows - The dropping of the daylight in the West,
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Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge The bough of cherries some officious fool
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
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Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent sprays edge - She rode with round the terrace---all and each
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Thats the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over, Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Lest you should think he never could recapture Or blush, at least. She thanked men,---good! but thanked
The first fine careless rapture! Somehow---I know not how---as if she ranked
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And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
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The buttercups , the little childrens dower, This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
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- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! In speech---(which I have not)---to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, Just this
Verse-Making Was Least Of My Virtues Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair Or there exceed the mark''---and if she let
Wealth that never yet was but might be--all that verse-making Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
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were Her wits to yours, forsooth , and made excuse,
If the life would but lengthen to wish, let the mind be laid bare. ---E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
So I said, "To do little is bad, to do nothing is worse"-- Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
And made verse. Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Love-making,--how simple a matter! No depths to explore, Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
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No heights in a life to ascend! No disheartening Before, As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
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No affrighting Hereafter,--love now will be love ever more. The company below, then. I repeat,
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So I felt "To keep silence were folly:"--all language above, The Count your master's known munificence
I made love. Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
My Last Duchess Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Looking as if she were alive. I call Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
Fra Pandolf'' by design, for never read Porphyirias lover
Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The rain set early in to-night,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance, The sullen wind was soon awake,
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But to myself they turned (since none puts by It tore the elm-tops down for spite ,
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And did its worst to vex the lake:
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, I listened with heart fit to break.
How such a glance came there; so, not the first When glided in Porphyria; straight
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not She shut the cold out and the storm,
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Her husband's presence only, called that spot And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

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Brushwood: wood of small branches especially when cut or buttercup: rannculo (flower)
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broken gaudy: too bright and heavily decorated
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sheaf: a bunch of stalks and ears of grain that are tied to dishearten: to cause (a person or group of people) to lose
together after being cut hope, enthusiasm, or courage : to discourage (someone)
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bole: trunk affrighting: frightening
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chaffinch: tentilho (bird) put by: set aside
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whitethroat: papa-amoras (bird) stoop: to lower oneself morally
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swallow: andorinha forsooth: indeed
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hedge: a row of shrubs or small trees that are planted close munificience: generosity
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to each other in order to form a boundary spite: petty ill will or hatred with the disposition to irritate,
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spray: a usually flowering branch or shoot annoy, or thwart
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thrush: tordo (pssaro) grate: a metal frame with bars across it that is used in a
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hoary: having gray or white hair fireplace or to cover an opening
 Poems by Robert Browning (1812-1889)

Which done, she rose, and from her form Gr-r-r there go, my hearts abhorrence!
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, Water your damned flower-pots, do!
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
Her hat and let the damp hair fall, Gods blood, would not mine kill you!
And, last, she sat down by my side What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
And called me. When no voice replied, Oh, that rose has prior claims
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She put my arm about her waist, Needs its leaden vase filled brimming ?
And made her smooth white shoulder bare, Hell dry you up with its flames!
And all her yellow hair displaced, At the meal we sit together;
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, Salve tibi! I must hear
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Wise talk of the kind of weather,
Murmuring how she loved me---she Sort of season, time of year:
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
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To set its struggling passion free Dare we hope oak-galls , I doubt;
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From pride, and vainer ties dissever , Whats the Latin name for parsley ?
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And give herself to me for ever. Whats the Greek name for Swines Snout ?
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But passion sometimes would prevail, Whew! Well have our platter burnished ,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain Laid with care on our own shelf!
A sudden thought of one so pale With a fire-new spoon were furnished,
For love of her, and all in vain: And a goblet for ourself,
So, she was come through wind and rain. Rinsed like something sacrificial
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Be sure I looked up at her eyes Ere tis fit to touch our chaps
Happy and proud; at last I knew Marked with L. for our initial!
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise (He-he! There his lily snaps!)
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Made my heart swell, and still it grew Saint, forsooth ! While brown Dolores
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While I debated what to do. Squats outside the Convent bank
That moment she was mine, mine, fair, With Sanchicha, telling stories,
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Perfectly pure and good: I found Steeping tresses in the tank,
A thing to do, and all her hair Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
In one long yellow string I wound Cant I see his dead eye glow,
Three times her little throat around, Bright as twere a Barbary corsairs?
And strangled her. No pain felt she; (That is, if hed let it show!)
I am quite sure she felt no pain. When he finishes refection,
As a shut bud that holds a bee, Knife and fork he never lays
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I warily opened her lids: again Cross-wise, to my recollection,
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. As do I, in Jesus praise.
And I untightened next the tress I the Trinity illustrate,
About her neck; her cheek once more Drinking watered orange-pulp
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Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: In three sips the Arian frustrate;
I propped her head up as before, While he drains his at one gulp.
Only, this time my shoulder bore Oh, those melons? If hes able
Her head, which droops upon it still: Were to have a feast! so nice!
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The smiling rosy little head, One goes to the Abbots table,
So glad it has its utmost will, All of us get each a slice.
That all it scorned at once is fled, How go on your flowers? None double?
And I, its love, am gained instead! Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Strange! And I, too, at such trouble,
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Her darling one wish would be heard. Keep them close-nipped on the sly!
And thus we sit together now, Theres a great text in Galatians,
And all night long we have not stirred, Once you trip on it, entails
And yet God has not said a word! Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
One sure, if another fails:
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Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloyster If I trip him just a-dying,

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dissever: separate swine snout: common name for the flower called dandellion
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wary: marked by keen caution, cunning, and watchfulness burnish: to make shiny or lustrous especially by rubbing
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especially in detecting and escaping danger chaps: gums
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cloyster: a square, open garden at the center of a religious forssoth: indeed
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monastery squat: to cause (oneself) to crouch or sit on the ground
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leaden: not lively or exciting steep: to put (something) in a liquid for a period of time
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to brim: to be completely filled with something Arian: of or relating to Arius or his doctrines especially that
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gall: an abnormal outgrowth of plant tissue usually due to the Son is not of the same substance as the Father but was
insect or mite parasites or fungi and sometimes forming an created as an agent for creating the world
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important source of tannin; or to cause someone to feel angry aboot: a man who is the head of a monastery
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or annoyed to nip: to destroy the growth, progress, or fulfillment of
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parley: salsinha <nipped in the bud>
 Poems by Robert Browning (1812-1889)

Sure of heaven as sure as can be,
Spin him round and send him flying
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Off to hell, a Manichee ?
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Or, my scrofulous French novel
On grey paper with blunt type!
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Simply glance at it, you grovel
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Hand and foot in Belials gripe:
If I double down its pages
At the woeful sixteenth print,
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When he gathers his greengages ,
Open a sieve and slip it in t?
Or, theres Satan! one might venture
Pledge ones soul to him, yet leave
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Such a flaw in the indenture
As hed miss till, past retrieve,
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Blasted lay that rose-acacia
Were so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine ...
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St, theres Vespers ! Plena gratia
Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r you swine!

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Machinee: Manichees were an early Christian sect that Belial: a minor demon in the Judeo-Christian tradition,
believed that the universe was in a constant struggle between subordinate to Lucifer
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the spiritual world of Good and the material, physical world of greengage: tipo de ameixa
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Evil. indenture: a document stating the terms under which a
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Scrofula: tuberculosis of lymph nodes especially in the neck security (as a bond) is issued
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(in this context, a possible metaphor for a pornographic novel)
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blasted: detestable
grovel: to treat someone with too much respect or fear in a 44
vespers: the evening prayer service in Catholic monasteries
way that shows weakness in order to be forgiven or to gain
approval or favor