Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


  Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.

  Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,

  The mother singing; at her marriage-bell

  The bride weeps, and before the oracle

  Of high-faned hills the poet has forgot

  Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,

  Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,

  Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place

  And touch but tombs, — look up! those tears will run

  Soon in long rivers down the lifted face,

  And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.

  GRIEF.

  I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;

  That only men incredulous of despair,

  Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air

  Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access

  Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,

  In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare

  Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare

  Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express

  Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death —

  Most like a monumental statue set

  In everlasting watch and moveless woe

  Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.

  Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:

  If it could weep, it could arise and go.

  SUBSTITUTION.

  When some belovèd voice that was to you

  Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,

  And silence, against which you dare not cry,

  Aches round you like a strong disease and new —

  What hope? what help? what music will undo

  That silence to your sense? Not friendship’s sigh,

  Not reason’s subtle count; not melody

  Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew;

  Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales

  Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress-trees

  To the clear moon; nor yet the spheric laws

  Self-chanted, nor the angels’ sweet “All hails,”

  Met in the smile of God: nay, none of these.

  Speak Thou , availing Christ! — and fill this pause.

  COMFORT.

  Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet

  From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low,

  Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so

  Who art not missed by any that entreat.

  Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet!

  And if no precious gums my hands bestow,

  Let my tears drop like amber while I go

  In reach of Thy divinest voice complete

  In humanest affection — thus, in sooth,

  To lose the sense of losing. As a child,

  Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore,

  Is sung to in its stead by mother’s mouth

  Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,

  He sleeps the faster that he wept before.

  PERPLEXED MUSIC.

  AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO E. J.

  Experience , like a pale musician, holds

  A dulcimer of patience in his hand,

  Whence harmonies, we cannot understand,

  Of God’s will in His worlds, the strain unfolds

  In sad, perplexèd minors: deathly colds

  Fall on us while we hear, and countermand

  Our sanguine heart back from the fancy-land

  With nightingales in visionary wolds.

  We murmur “Where is any certain tune

  Or measured music in such notes as these?”

  But angels, leaning from the golden seat,

  Are not so minded; their fine ear hath won

  The issue of completed cadences,

  And, smiling down the stars, they whisper — Sweet .

  WORK.

  What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil;

  Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines

  For all the heat o’ the day, till it declines,

  And Death’s mild curfew shall from work assoil.

  God did anoint thee with His odorous oil,

  To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns

  All thy tears over, like pure crystallines,

  For younger fellow-workers of the soil

  To wear for amulets. So others shall

  Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand,

  From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer,

  And God’s grace fructify through thee to all.

  The least flower with a brimming cup may stand,

  And share its dew-drop with another near.

  FUTURITY.

  And , O belovèd voices, upon which

  Ours passionately call because erelong

  Ye brake off in the middle of that song

  We sang together softly, to enrich

  The poor world with the sense of love, and witch

  The heart out of things evil, — I am strong,

  Knowing ye are not lost for aye among

  The hills, with last year’s thrush. God keeps a niche

  In Heaven to hold our idols; and albeit

  He brake them to our faces and denied

  That our close kisses should impair their white,

  I know we shall behold them raised, complete,

  The dust swept from their beauty, — glorified

  New Memnons singing in the great God-light.

  THE TWO SAYINGS.

  Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures beat

  Like pulses in the Church’s brow and breast;

  And by them we find rest in our unrest

  And, heart-deep in salt tears, do yet entreat

  God’s fellowship as if on heavenly seat.

  The first is Jesus wept , — whereon is prest

  Full many a sobbing face that drops its best

  And sweetest waters on the record sweet:

  And one is where the Christ, denied and scorned,

  Looked upon Peter . Oh, to render plain,

  By help of having loved a little and mourned,

  That look of sovran love and sovran pain

  Which He , who could not sin yet suffered, turned

  On him who could reject but not sustain!

  THE LOOK.

  The Saviour looked on Peter. Ay, no word,

  No gesture of reproach; the Heavens serene

  Though heavy with armed justice, did not lean

  Their thunders that way: the forsaken Lord

  Looked only, on the traitor. None record

  What that look was, none guess; for those who have seen

  Wronged lovers loving through a death-pang keen,

  Or pale-cheeked martyrs smiling to a sword,

  Have missed Jehovah at the judgment-call.

  And Peter, from the height of blasphemy —

  “I never knew this man” — did quail and fall

  As knowing straight that God ; and turnèd free

  And went out speechless from the face of all,

  And filled the silence, weeping bitterly.

  THE MEANING OF THE LOOK.

  I think that look of Christ might seem to say —

  “Thou Peter! art thou then a common stone

  Which I at last must break my heart upon,

  For all God’s charge to His high angels may

  Guard my foot better? Did I yesterday

  Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run

  Quick to deny me ‘neath the morning sun?

  And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray?

  The cock crows coldly. — Go, and manifest

  A late contrition, but no bootless fear!

  For when thy final need is dreariest,

  Thou shalt not be denied, as I am here;

  My voice to God and angels shall attest,

  Because I know this man, let him be clear.”

  A THOUGHT FOR A LONELY DEATH-BED.

  IN
SCRIBED TO MY FRIEND E. C.

  If God compel thee to this destiny,

  To die alone, with none beside thy bed

  To ruffle round with sobs thy last word said

  And mark with tears the pulses ebb from thee, —

  Pray then alone, “O Christ, come tenderly!

  By Thy forsaken Sonship in the red

  Drear wine-press, — by the wilderness outspread, —

  And the lone garden where Thine agony

  Fell bloody from Thy brow, — by all of those

  Permitted desolations, comfort mine!

  No earthly friend being near me, interpose

  No deathly angel ‘twixt my face and Thine,

  But stoop Thyself to gather my life’s rose,

  And smile away my mortal to Divine!”

  WORK AND CONTEMPLATION.

  The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel

  A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole;

  She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,

  Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel

  Is full, and artfully her fingers feel

  With quick adjustment, provident control,

  The lines — too subtly twisted to unroll —

  Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal

  To the dear Christian Church — that we may do

  Our Father’s business in these temples mirk,

  Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong;

  While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue

  Some high calm spheric tune, and prove our work

  The better for the sweetness of our song.

  PAIN IN PLEASURE.

  A Thought lay like a flower upon mine heart,

  And drew around it other thoughts like bees

  For multitude and thirst of sweetnesses;

  Whereat rejoicing, I desired the art

  Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf and mart

  Could lure those insect swarms from orange-trees,

  That I might hive with me such thoughts and please

  My soul so, always. Foolish counterpart

  Of a weak man’s vain wishes! While I spoke,

  The thought I called a flower grew nettlerough,

  The thoughts, called bees, stung me to festering:

  Oh, entertain (cried Reason as she woke)

  Your best and gladdest thoughts but long enough,

  And they will all prove sad enough to sting!

  AN APPREHENSION.

  If all the gentlest-hearted friends I know

  Concentred in one heart their gentleness,

  That still grew gentler till its pulse was less

  For life than pity, — I should yet be slow

  To bring my own heart nakedly below

  The palm of such a friend, that he should press

  Motive, condition, means, appliances,

  My false ideal joy and fickle woe,

  Out full to light and knowledge; I should fear

  Some plait between the brows, some rougher chime

  In the free voice. O angels, let your flood

  Of bitter scorn dash on me! do ye hear

  What I say who bear calmly all the time

  This everlasting face to face with God ?

  DISCONTENT.

  Light human nature is too lightly tost

  And ruffled without cause, complaining on —

  Restless with rest, until, being overthrown,

  It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frost

  Or a small wasp have crept to the innermost

  Of our ripe peach, or let the wilful sun

  Shine westward of our window, — straight we run

  A furlong’s sigh as if the world were lost.

  But what time through the heart and through the brain

  God hath transfixed us, — we, so moved before,

  Attain to a calm. Ay, shouldering weights of pain,

  We anchor in deep waters, safe from shore,

  And hear submissive o’er the stormy main

  God’s chartered judgments walk for evermore.

  PATIENCE TAUGHT BY NATURE.

  “ O dreary life,” we cry, “O dreary life!”

  And still the generations of the birds

  Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds

  Serenely live while we are keeping strife

  With Heaven’s true purpose in us, as a knife

  Against which we may struggle! Ocean girds

  Unslackened the dry land, savannah-swards

  Unweary sweep, hills watch unworn, and rife

  Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees

  To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass

  In their old glory: O thou God of old,

  Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these! —

  But so much patience as a blade of grass

  Grows by, contented through the heat and cold.

  CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON.

  I think we are too ready with complaint

  In this fair world of God’s. Had we no hope

  Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope

  Of yon grey blank of sky, we might grow faint

  To muse upon eternity’s constraint

  Round our aspirant souls; but since the scope

  Must widen early, is it well to droop,

  For a few days consumed in loss and taint?

  O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted

  And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road,

  Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread

  Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod

  To meet the flints? At least it may be said

  “Because the way is short , I thank thee, God.”

  EXAGGERATION.

  We overstate the ills of life, and take

  Imagination (given us to bring down

  The choirs of singing angels overshone

  By God’s clear glory) down our earth to rake

  The dismal snows instead, flake following flake,

  To cover all the corn; we walk upon

  The shadow of hills across a level thrown,

  And pant like climbers: near the alder brake

  We sigh so loud, the nightingale within

  Refuses to sing loud, as else she would.

  O brothers, let us leave the shame and sin

  Of taking vainly, in a plaintive mood,

  The holy name of Grief! — holy herein,

  That by the grief of One came all our good.

  ADEQUACY.

  Now , by the verdure on thy thousand hills,

  Belovèd England, doth the earth appear

  Quite good enough for men to overbear

  The will of God in, with rebellious wills!

  We cannot say the morning-sun fulfils

  Ingloriously its course, nor that the clear

  Strong stars without significance insphere

  Our habitation: we, meantime, our ills

  Heap up against this good and lift a cry

  Against this work-day world, this ill-spread feast,

  As if ourselves were better certainly

  Than what we come to. Maker and High Priest,

  I ask thee not my joys to multiply, —

  Only to make me worthier of the least.

  TO GEORGE SAND.

  A DESIRE.

  Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man,

  Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions

  Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance

  And answers roar for roar, as spirits can:

  I would some mild miraculous thunder ran

  Above the applauded circus, in appliance

  Of thine own nobler nature’s strength and science,

  Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,

  From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place

  With holier light! that thou to woman’s claim

  And man’s, mightst join beside the angel’s grace

 
; Of a pure genius sanctified from blame,

  Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace

  To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.

  TO GEORGE SAND.

  A RECOGNITION.

  True genius, but true woman! dost deny

  The woman’s nature with a manly scorn,

  And break away the gauds and armlets worn

  By weaker women in captivity?

  Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry

  Is sobbed in by a woman’s voice forlorn, —

  Thy woman’s hair, my sister, all unshorn

  Floats back dishevelled strength in agony,

  Disproving thy man’s name: and while before

  The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,

  We see thy woman-heart beat evermore

  Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher,

  Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore

  Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire!

  THE PRISONER.

  I count the dismal time by months and years

  Since last I felt the green sward under foot,

  And the great breath of all things summer-mute

  Met mine upon my lips. Now earth appears

  As strange to me as dreams of distant spheres

  Or thoughts of Heaven we weep at. Nature’s lute

  Sounds on, behind this door so closely shut,

  A strange wild music to the prisoner’s ears,

  Dilated by the distance, till the brain

  Grows dim with fancies which it feels too fine:

  While ever, with a visionary pain,

  Past the precluded senses, sweep and shine

  Streams, forests, glades, and many a golden train

  Of sunlit hills transfigured to Divine.

  INSUFFICIENCY.

  When I attain to utter forth in verse

  Some inward thought, my soul throbs audibly

  Along my pulses, yearning to be free

  And something farther, fuller, higher, rehearse,

  To the individual, true, and the universe,

  In consummation of right harmony:

 

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