The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 93

What so wild as words are?

I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking While we speak!

Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is, False to thee?

Where the serpent's tooth is Shun the tree--

Where the apple reddens Never pry-- Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I!

Be a G.o.d and hold me With a charm!

Be a man and fold me With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love!

As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought--

Meet, if thou require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow Not to-night: I must bury sorrow Out of sight:

--Must a little weep, Love.

(Foolish me!) And so fall asleep, Love Loved by thee.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be-- My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness!

Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only a memory of the same, --And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right!

The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions--sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your pa.s.sion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- Thus leant she and lingered-joy and fear!

Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind.

Past hopes already lay behind.

What need to strive with a life awry?

Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss.

Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!

Where had I been now if the worst befell?

And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive, and who succeeds?

We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side.

I thought,--All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever paired?

What heart alike conceived and dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshly screen?

We ride and I see her bosom heave.

There's many a crown for who can reach.

Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!

The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones?

They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.

My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And place them in rhyme so, side by side.

'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men?

Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme?

Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor--so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn!

You acquiesce, and shall I repine?

What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!"

I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being--had I signed the bond-- Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.

This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test!

I sink back shuddering from the quest.

Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

And yet--she has not spoke so long!

What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide?

What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,-- And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, forever ride?

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

YOUTH AND ART

It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed, "They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished."

My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!"