The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning - LightNovelsOnl.com
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My Agnes false? such shame?
She? Rather be it said That the pure saint of her name Has stood there in her stead, And tricked you to this blame.
VI.
Her very gown, her cloak Fell chastely: no disguise, But expression! while she broke With her clear grey morning-eyes Full upon me and then spoke.
VII.
She wore her hair away From her forehead,--like a cloud Which a little wind in May Peels off finely: disallowed Though bright enough to stay.
VIII.
For the heavens must have the place To themselves, to use and s.h.i.+ne in, As her soul would have her face To press through upon mine, in That orb of angel grace.
IX.
Had she any fault at all, 'T was having none, I thought too-- There seemed a sort of thrall; As she felt her shadow ought to Fall straight upon the wall.
X.
Her sweetness strained the sense Of common life and duty; And every day's expense Of moving in such beauty Required, almost, defence.
XI.
What good, I thought, is done By such sweet things, if any?
This world smells ill i' the sun Though the garden-flowers are many,-- _She_ is only one.
XII.
Can a voice so low and soft Take open actual part With Right,--maintain aloft Pure truth in life or art, Vexed always, wounded oft?--
XIII.
_She_ fit, with that fair pose Which melts from curve to curve, To stand, run, work with those Who wrestle and deserve, And speak plain without glose?
XIV.
But I turned round on my fear Defiant, disagreeing-- What if G.o.d has set her here Less for action than for Being?-- For the eye and for the ear.
XV.
Just to show what beauty may, Just to prove what music can,-- And then to die away From the presence of a man, Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray?
XVI.
As a door, left half ajar In heaven, would make him think How heavenly-different are Things glanced at through the c.h.i.n.k, Till he pined from near to far.
XVII.
That door could lead to h.e.l.l?
That s.h.i.+ning merely meant d.a.m.nation? What! She fell Like a woman, who was sent Like an angel, by a spell?
XVIII.
She, who scarcely trod the earth, Turned mere dirt? My Agnes,--mine!
Called so! felt of too much worth To be used so! too divine To be breathed near, and so forth!
XIX.
Why, I dared not name a sin In her presence: I went round, Clipped its name and shut it in Some mysterious crystal sound,-- Changed the dagger for the pin.
XX.
Now you name herself _that word_?
O my Agnes! O my saint!
Then the great joys of the Lord Do not last? Then all this paint Runs off nature? leaves a board?
XXI.
Who's dead here? No, not she: Rather I! or whence this damp Cold corruption's misery?
While my very mourners stamp Closer in the clods on me.
XXII.
And my mouth is full of dust Till I cannot speak and curse-- Speak and d.a.m.n him ... "Blame's unjust"?
Sin blots out the universe, All because she would and must?
XXIII.
She, my white rose, dropping off The high rose-tree branch! and not That the night-wind blew too rough, Or the noon-sun burnt too hot, But, that being a rose--'t was enough!
XXIV.
Then henceforth may earth grow trees!
No more roses!--hard straight lines To score lies out! none of these Fluctuant curves, but firs and pines, Poplars, cedars, cypresses!
END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.
