Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Only, she ever sickened, found repulse

  At the other kind of water, not her life,

  (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o’ the sun)

  Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe,

  And in her old bounds buried her despair,

  Hating and loving warmth alike: so He.

  ‘Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle,

  Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing.

  Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech;

  Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam,

  That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown

  He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye

  By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue

  That pricks deep into oak warts for a worm,

  And says a plain word when she finds her prize,

  But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves

  That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks

  About their hole — He made all these and more,

  Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else?

  He could not, Himself, make a second self

  To be His mate; as well have made Himself:

  He would not make what He mislikes or slights,

  An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains:

  But did, in envy, listlessness or sport,

  Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be —

  Weaker in most points, stronger in a few,

  Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while,

  Things He admires and mocks too, — that is it.

  Because, so brave, so better though they be,

  It nothing skills if He begin to plague.

  Look, now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash,

  Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived,

  Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss, —

  Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all,

  Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain;

  Last, throw me on my back i’ the seeded thyme,

  And wanton, wishing I were born a bird.

  Put case, unable to be what I wish,

  I yet could make a live bird out of clay:

  Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban

  Able to fly? — for, there, see, he hath wings,

  And great comb like the hoopoe’s to admire,

  And there, a sting to do his foes offence,

  There, and I will that he begin to live,

  Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns

  Of grigs high up that make the merry din,

  Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not.

  In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay,

  And he lay stupid-like, — why, I should laugh;

  And if he, spying me, should fall to weep,

  Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong,

  Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, —

  Well, as the chance were, this might take or else

  Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry,

  And give the mankin three sound legs for one,

  Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg

  And lessoned he was mine and merely clay.

  Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme,

  Drinking the mash, with brain become alive,

  Making and marring clay at will? So He.

  ‘Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him,

  Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord.

  ‘Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs

  That march now from the mountain to the sea;

  ‘Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,

  Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.

  ‘Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots

  Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off;

  ‘Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm,

  And two worms he whose nippers end in red;

  As it likes me each time, I do: so He.

  Well then, ‘supposeth He is good i’ the main,

  Placable if His mind and ways were guessed,

  But rougher than His handiwork, be sure!

  Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself,

  And envieth that, so helped, such things do more

  Than He who made them! What consoles but this?

  That they, unless through Him, do nought at all,

  And must submit: what other use in things?

  ‘Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint

  That, blown through, gives exact the scream o’ the jay

  When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue:

  Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay

  Flock within stone’s throw, glad their foe is hurt:

  Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth

  “I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing,

  “I make the cry my maker cannot make

  “With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!”

  Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.

  But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease?

  Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that,

  What knows, — the something over Setebos

  That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought,

  Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance.

  There may be something quiet o’er His head,

  Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief,

  Since both derive from weakness in some way.

  I joy because the quails come; would not joy

  Could I bring quails here when I have a mind:

  This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth.

  ‘Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch,

  But never spends much thought nor care that way.

  It may look up, work up, — the worse for those

  It works on! ‘Careth but for Setebos

  The many-handed as a cuttle-fish,

  Who, making Himself feared through what He does,

  Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar

  To what is quiet and hath happy life;

  Next looks down here, and out of very spite

  Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real,

  These good things to match those as hips do grapes.

  ‘Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport.

  Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books

  Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle:

  Vexed, ‘stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped,

  Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words;

  Has peeled a wand and called it by a name;

  Weareth at whiles for an enchanter’s robe

  The eyed skin of a supple oncelot;

  And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole,

  A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch,

  Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye,

  And saith she is Miranda and my wife:

  ‘Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane

  He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge;

  Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared,

  Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame,

  And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge

  In a hole o’ the rock and calls him Caliban;

  A bitter heart that bides its time and bites.

  ‘Plays thus at being Prosper in a way,

  Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He.

  His dam held that the Quiet made all things

  Which Setebos vexed only: ‘holds not so.

  Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex.

  Had He meant other, while His hand was in,

  Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,

  Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow,

  Or overscale my flesh ‘neath joint and joint

  L
ike an orc’s armour? Ay, — so spoil His sport!

  He is the One now: only He doth all.

  ‘Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him.

  Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why?

  ‘Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast

  Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose,

  But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate

  Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes.

  Also it pleaseth Setebos to work,

  Use all His hands, and exercise much craft,

  By no means for the love of what is worked.

  ‘Tasteth, himself, no finer good i’ the world

  When all goes right, in this safe summer-time,

  And he wants little, hungers, aches not much,

  Than trying what to do with wit and strength.

  ‘Falls to make something: ‘piled yon pile of turfs,

  And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk,

  And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each,

  And set up endwise certain spikes of tree,

  And crowned the whole with a sloth’s skull a-top,

  Found dead i’ the woods, too hard for one to kill.

  No use at all i’ the work, for work’s sole sake;

  ‘Shall some day knock it down again: so He.

  ‘Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof!

  One hurricane will spoil six good months’ hope.

  He hath a spite against me, that I know,

  Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why?

  So it is, all the same, as well I find.

  ‘Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm

  With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises

  Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave,

  Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck,

  Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue,

  And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite.

  ‘Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies)

  Where, half an hour before, I slept i’ the shade:

  Often they scatter sparkles: there is force!

  ‘Dug up a newt He may have envied once

  And turned to stone, shut up Inside a stone.

  Please Him and hinder this? — What Prosper does?

  Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He!

  There is the sport: discover how or die!

  All need not die, for of the things o’ the isle

  Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees;

  Those at His mercy, — why, they please Him most

  When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice!

  Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth.

  You must not know His ways, and play Him off,

  Sure of the issue. ‘Doth the like himself:

  ‘Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears

  But steals the nut from underneath my thumb,

  And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence:

  ‘Spareth an urchin that contrariwise,

  Curls up into a ball, pretending death

  For fright at my approach: the two ways please.

  But what would move my choler more than this,

  That either creature counted on its life

  To-morrow and next day and all days to come,

  Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart,

  “Because he did so yesterday with me,

  “And otherwise with such another brute,

  “So must he do henceforth and always.” — Ay?

  Would teach the reasoning couple what “must” means!

  ‘Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.

  ‘Conceiveth all things will continue thus,

  And we shall have to live in fear of Him

  So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change,

  If He have done His best, make no new world

  To please Him more, so leave off watching this, —

  If He surprise not even the Quiet’s self

  Some strange day, — or, suppose, grow into it

  As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we,

  And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

  ‘Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.

  His dam held different, that after death

  He both plagued enemies and feasted friends:

  Idly! He doth His worst in this our life,

  Giving just respite lest we die through pain,

  Saving last pain for worst, — with which, an end.

  Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire

  Is, not to seem too happy. ‘Sees, himself,

  Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink,

  Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both.

  ‘Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball

  On head and tail as if to save their lives:

  Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

  Even so, ‘would have Him misconceive, suppose

  This Caliban strives hard and ails no less,

  And always, above all else, envies Him;

  Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights,

  Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh,

  And never speaks his mind save housed as now:

  Outside, ‘groans, curses. If He caught me here,

  O’erheard this speech, and asked “What chucklest at?”

  ‘Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off,

  Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best,

  Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree,

  Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste:

  While myself lit a fire, and made a song

  And sung it, “What I hate, be consecrate

  To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate

  For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?”

  Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend,

  Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime,

  That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch

  And conquer Setebos, or likelier He

  Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.

  [What, what? A curtain o’er the world at once!

  Crickets stop hissing: not a bird — or, yes,

  There scuds His raven that has told Him all!

  It was fool’s play, this prattling! Ha! The wind

  Shoulders the pillared dust, death’s house o’ the move,

  And fast invading fires begin! White blaze —

  A tree’s head snaps — and there, there, there, there, there,

  His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him!

  Lo! ‘Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!

  ‘Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip,

  Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month

  One little mess of whelks, so he may ‘scape!]

  Confessions

  WHAT is he buzzing in my ears?

  ”Now that I come to die,

  Do I view the world as a vale of tears?”

  Ah, reverend sir, not I!

  What I viewed there once, what I view again

  Where the physic bottles stand

  On the table’s edge, — is a suburb lane,

  With a wall to my bedside hand.

  That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,

  From a house you could descry

  O’er the garden-wall; is the curtain blue

  Or green to a healthy eye?

  To mine, it serves for the old June weather

  Blue above lane and wall;

  And that farthest bottle labelled “Ether”

  Is the house o’ertopping all.

  At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,

  There watched for me, one June,

  A girl: I know, sir, it’s improper,

  My poor mind’s out of tune.

  Only, there was a way . . . you crept

  Close by the side, to dodge

 
Eyes in the house, two eyes except:

  They styled their house “The Lodge.”

  What right had a lounger up their lane?

  But, by creeping very close,

  With the good wall’s help, — their eyes might strain

  And stretch themselves to Oes,

  Yet never catch her and me together,

  As she left the attic, there,

  By the rim of the bottle labelled “Ether,”

  And stole from stair to stair,

  And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,

  We loved, sir — used to meet:

  How sad and bad and mad it was —

  But then, how it was sweet!

  May and Death

  I.

  I WISH that when you died last May,

  Charles, there had died along with you

  Three parts of spring’s delightful things;

  Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.

  II.

  A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps!

  There must be many a pair of friends

  Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm

  Moon-births and the long evening-ends.

  III.

  So, for their sake, be May still May!

  Let their new time, as mine of old,

  Do all it did for me: I bid

  Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.

  IV.

  Only, one little sight, one plant,

  Woods have in May, that starts up green

  Save a sole streak which, so to speak,

  Is spring’s blood, spilt its leaves between, —

  V.

  That, they might spare; a certain wood

  Might miss the plant; their loss were small:

  But I, — whene’er the leaf grows there,

  Its drop comes from my heart, that’s all.

  Deaf And Dumb

  A Group By Woolner

  ONLY the prism’s obstruction shows aright

  The secret of a sunbeam, breaks its light

  Into the jewelled bow from blankest white;

  So may a glory from defect arise:

  Only by Deafness may the vexed Love wreak

  Its insuppressive sense on brow and cheek,

  Only by Dumbness adequately speak

  As favoured mouth could never, through the eyes.

  Prospice

  FEAR death? — to feel the fog in my throat,

  The mist in my face,

  When the snows begin, and the blasts denote

  I am nearing the place,

  The power of the night, the press of the storm,

  The post of the foe;

  Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,

  Yet the strong man must go:

  For the journey is done and the summit attained,

  And the barriers fall,

  Though a battle ‘s to fight ere the guerdon be gained,