Porphyria's
Lover
The rain set early in to-
night,
The sullen wind was soon
awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for
spite,
And did its worst
to vex
the lake:
I listen'd with
heart fit to
break.
5
When glided in Porphyria;
straight
She shut the cold out and the
storm,
And kneel'd and made
the
cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the
cottage
warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form 10
Withdrew the dripping cloak and
shawl,
And laid her soil'd
gloves
by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair
fall,
And, last, she sat down by my
side
And call'd me. When
no voice
replied,
15
She put my arm about her
waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder
bare,
And all her yellow hair
displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie
there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 20
Murmuring how she loved me—
she
Too weak, for all her heart's
endeavour,
To set its struggling passion
free
From pride, and vainer ties
dissever,
And give herself to
me for
ever.
25
But passion sometimes would
prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast
restrain
A sudden thought of one so
pale
For love of her, and
all in
vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain. 30
Be sure I look'd up
at her
eyes
Happy and proud; at last I
knew
Porphyria worshipp'd
me; surprise
Made my heart swell,
and
still it grew
While I debated
what to do. 35
That moment she was mine, mine,
fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I
found
A thing to do, and
all her
hair
In one long yellow string I
wound
Three times her little throat around, 40
And strangled
her. No pain felt
she;
I am quite sure she felt no
pain.
As a shut bud that holds a
bee,
I warily oped her
lids:
again
Laugh'd the blue eyes
without a
stain.
45
And I untighten'd
next the
tress
About her neck; her cheek once
more
Blush'd bright beneath my
burning
kiss:
I propp'd her head
up as
before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore 50
Her head, which droops upon it
still:
The smiling rosy little
head,
So glad it has its utmost
will,
That all it scorn'd
at once
is fled,
And I, its love, am gain'd
instead!
55
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how
Her darling one wish would be
heard.
And thus we sit together
now,
And all night long we have not stirr'd,
And yet God has not said a word! 60
Robert Browning. Porphyria’s Lover. 1836. Arthur Quiller-Couch,
ed. 1919. The