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A sudden thought of one so pale
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
In one long yellow string I wound
I warily oped her lids: again
About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK
(See Edgar's song in "LEAR.")
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
All travellers who might find him posted there,
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
While some discuss if near the other graves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
I might go on; nought else remained to do.
So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See "Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
"T is the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, "Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness? 't is a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood, One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Robert Browning. III.