The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume II Part 18

Mother, mother, up in heaven, Stand up on the jasper sea, And be witness I have given All the gifts required of me,-- Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned, Love that left me with a wound, Life itself that turneth round!

VII.

Thou art standing in the room, In a molten glory shrined That rays off into the gloom!

But thy smile is bright and bleak Like cold waves--I cannot speak, I sob in it, and grow weak.

VIII.

Ghostly mother, keep aloof One hour longer from my soul, For I still am thinking of Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!

On my finger is a ring Which I still see glittering When the night hides everything.

IX.

Little sister, thou art pale!

Ah, I have a wandering brain-- But I lose that fever-bale, And my thoughts grow calm again.

Lean down closer--closer still!

I have words thine ear to fill, And would kiss thee at my will.

X.

Dear, I heard thee in the spring, Thee and Robert--through the trees,-- When we all went gathering Boughs of May-bloom for the bees.

Do not start so! think instead How the suns.h.i.+ne overhead Seemed to trickle through the shade.

XI.

What a day it was, that day!

Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away At the sight of the great sky: And the silence, as it stood In the glory's golden flood, Audibly did bud, and bud.

XII.

Through the winding hedgerows green, How we wandered, I and you, With the bowery tops shut in, And the gates that showed the view!

How we talked there; thrushes soft Sang our praises out, or oft Bleatings took them from the croft:

XIII.

Till the pleasure grown too strong Left me muter evermore, And, the winding road being long, I walked out of sight, before, And so, wrapt in musings fond, Issued (past the wayside pond) On the meadow-lands beyond.

XIV.

I sate down beneath the beech Which leans over to the lane, And the far sound of your speech Did not promise any pain; And I blessed you full and free, With a smile stooped tenderly O'er the May-flowers on my knee.

XV.

But the sound grew into word As the speakers drew more near-- Sweet, forgive me that I heard What you wished me not to hear.

Do not weep so, do not shake, Oh,--I heard thee, Bertha, make Good true answers for my sake.

XVI.

Yes, and HE too! let him stand In thy thoughts, untouched by blame.

Could he help it, if my hand He had claimed with hasty claim?

That was wrong perhaps--but then Such things be--and will, again.

Women cannot judge for men.

XVII.

Had he seen thee when he swore He would love but me alone?

Thou wast absent, sent before To our kin in Sidmouth town.

When he saw thee who art best Past compare, and loveliest.

He but judged thee as the rest.

XVIII.

Could we blame him with grave words, Thou and I, Dear, if we might?

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds Flying straightway to the light: Mine are older.--Hus.h.!.+--look out-- Up the street! Is none without?

How the poplar swings about!

XIX.

And that hour--beneath the beech, When I listened in a dream, And he said in his deep speech That he owed me all _esteem_,-- Each word swam in on my brain With a dim, dilating pain, Till it burst with that last strain.

XX.

I fell flooded with a dark, In the silence of a swoon.

When I rose, still cold and stark, There was night; I saw the moon And the stars, each in its place, And the May-blooms on the gra.s.s, Seemed to wonder what I was.

XXI.

And I walked as if apart From myself, when I could stand, And I pitied my own heart, As if I held it in my hand-- Somewhat coldly, with a sense Of fulfilled benevolence, And a "Poor thing" negligence.

XXII.

And I answered coldly too, When you met me at the door; And I only _heard_ the dew Dripping from me to the floor: And the flowers, I bade you see, Were too withered for the bee,-- As my life, henceforth, for me.

XXIII.

Do not weep so--Dear,--heart-warm!

All was best as it befell.

If I say he did me harm, I speak wild,--I am not well.

All his words were kind and good-- _He esteemed me._ Only, blood Runs so faint in womanhood!

XXIV.

Then I always was too grave,-- Liked the saddest ballad sung,-- With that look, besides, we have In our faces, who die young.

I had died, Dear, all the same; Life's long, joyous, jostling game Is too loud for my meek shame.

XXV.

We are so unlike each other, Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness.