728   Pippa’s Song

THE year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world!

729   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.
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
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,
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,
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.
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.

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.
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,
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.
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
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!
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!

730   The Laboratory

[ANCIEN RÉGIME]

I

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,
May gaze thro’ these faint smokes curling whitely,
As thou pliest thy trade in this devil’s-smithy—
Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

II

He is with her; and they know that I know
Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear
Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—I am here.

III

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,
Pound at thy powder,—I am not in haste!
Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things,
Than go where men wait me and dance at the King’s.

IV

That in the mortar—you call it a gum?
Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!
And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,
Sure to taste sweetly,—is that poison too?

V