#PoetryPromise January

Inspired by Chris Hildrew, my #PoetryPromise for 2016 is to share a favourite poem of mine every month through my blog. #PoetryPromise is coordinated through Poetry by Heart with the aim of promoting and spreading the love of poetry. My choice for January is Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning.

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NPG 1898 Robert Browning by Michele Gordigiani oil on canvas, 1858 Credit line: National Portrait Gallery, London

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 listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
       She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled 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 soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
       And, last, she sat down by my side
       And called 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 looked up at her eyes
       Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped 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
       Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
       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!
       This has long been my absolute favourite poem though bizarrely I can’t remember when I first encountered it. I’ve always been struck by how the sulking lover is coaxed out of his bitterness and anger by the presence of Porphyria who glides into the room and immediately brings warmth and life into the cottage. His realisation that Porphyria worships him leads to a resolve to preserve that moment forever and the surprising decision to strangle her with her own hair.
       Browning doesn’t shy away from disturbing characters (the Duke in ‘My Last Duchess’ or the poisonous voice of ‘The Laboratory’) but here the contrast between the jealous lover and the unsuspecting Porphyria has always had an effect on me.
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