Youth and Art 861 I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other's windows. You lounged, like a boy of the South, And I soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind, And be safe in my corset-lacing. No harm! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up, As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up: For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare Why did not you pinch a flower Of thanks in a look, or sing it? I did look, sharp as a lynx (And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. But I think I gave you as good! For his tuning her that piano?" Could you say so, and never say, "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes"? No, no: you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. But you meet the Prince at the Board, I've married a rich old lord, And you're dubbed knight and an R. A. Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever. Robert Browning [1812-1889] TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA I WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, In spirit better through the land, Two in the Campagna For me, I touched a thought, I know, Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Took up the floating weft, Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles,-blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast! The champaign with its endless fleece Such life here, through such lengths of hours Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers! How say you? Let us, O my dove, To love or not to love? I would that you were all to me, Of the wound, since wound must be? 863 I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, your part, my part In life, for good and ill. No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern— Infinite passion, and the pain of finite hearts that yearn. Robert Browning [1812-1889] ONE WAY OF LOVE ALL June I bound the rose in sheaves. And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye. How many a month I strove to suit Song My whole life long I learned to love. prove And speak my passion-heaven or hell? Those who win heaven, blest are they! 865 Robert Browning [1812-1889] "NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE" NEVER the time and the place And the loved one all together! This path-how soft to pace! This May-what magic weather! In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, Uncoil thee from the waking man! Do I hold the Past Thus firm and fast Yet doubt if the Future hold I can? This path so soft to pace shall lead Through the magic of May to herself indeed! -I and she! Robert Browning [1812-1889] SONG From "The Saint's Tragedy " OH! that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing In the shade of the whispering trees. |