Oh, of course she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden,
And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not _beyond_ the gate;
She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon
Such a man as I; 't were something to be level to her hate.
And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not _beyond_ the gate;
She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon
Such a man as I; 't were something to be level to her hate.
Elizabeth Browning
She looked up, as if in wonder,
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said--"Bertram! "--It was all.
LXXXIII.
If she had cursed me, and she might have, or if even, with queenly
bearing
Which at need is used by women, she had risen up and said,
"Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing:
Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less, instead! "--
LXXXIV.
I had borne it: but that "Bertram"--why, it lies there on the paper
A mere word, without her accent, and you cannot judge the weight
Of the calm which crushed my passion: I seemed drowning in a vapour;
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate.
LXXXV.
So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth,
By a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration,
And by youth's own anguish turning grimly grey the hairs of youth,--
LXXXVI.
By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely
I spake basely--using truth, if what I spake indeed was true,
To avenge wrong on a woman--_her_, who sate there weighing nicely
A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do! --
LXXXVII.
By such wrong and woe exhausted--what I suffered and occasioned,--
As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes,
And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned,
Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies--
LXXXVIII.
So I fell, struck down before her--do you blame me, friend, for
weakness?
'T was my strength of passion slew me! --fell before her like a stone;
Fast the dreadful world rolled from me on its roaring wheels of
blackness:
When the light came I was lying in this chamber and alone.
LXXXIX.
Oh, of course she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden,
And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not _beyond_ the gate;
She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon
Such a man as I; 't were something to be level to her hate.
XC.
But for me--you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter,
How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone.
I shall leave her house at dawn; I would to-night, if I were better--
And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun.
XCI.
When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart, with no last gazes,
No weak moanings (one word only, left in writing for her hands),
Out of reach of all derision, and some unavailing praises,
To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands.
XCII.
Blame me not. I would not squander life in grief--I am abstemious.
I but nurse my spirit's falcon that its wing may soar again.
There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius:
Into work the poet kneads them, and he does not die _till then_.
CONCLUSION.
I.
Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever
Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on every leaf.
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief.
II.
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said--"Bertram! "--It was all.
LXXXIII.
If she had cursed me, and she might have, or if even, with queenly
bearing
Which at need is used by women, she had risen up and said,
"Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing:
Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less, instead! "--
LXXXIV.
I had borne it: but that "Bertram"--why, it lies there on the paper
A mere word, without her accent, and you cannot judge the weight
Of the calm which crushed my passion: I seemed drowning in a vapour;
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate.
LXXXV.
So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth,
By a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration,
And by youth's own anguish turning grimly grey the hairs of youth,--
LXXXVI.
By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely
I spake basely--using truth, if what I spake indeed was true,
To avenge wrong on a woman--_her_, who sate there weighing nicely
A poor manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do! --
LXXXVII.
By such wrong and woe exhausted--what I suffered and occasioned,--
As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes,
And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned,
Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies--
LXXXVIII.
So I fell, struck down before her--do you blame me, friend, for
weakness?
'T was my strength of passion slew me! --fell before her like a stone;
Fast the dreadful world rolled from me on its roaring wheels of
blackness:
When the light came I was lying in this chamber and alone.
LXXXIX.
Oh, of course she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden,
And to cast it from her scornful sight, but not _beyond_ the gate;
She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon
Such a man as I; 't were something to be level to her hate.
XC.
But for me--you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter,
How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone.
I shall leave her house at dawn; I would to-night, if I were better--
And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun.
XCI.
When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart, with no last gazes,
No weak moanings (one word only, left in writing for her hands),
Out of reach of all derision, and some unavailing praises,
To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands.
XCII.
Blame me not. I would not squander life in grief--I am abstemious.
I but nurse my spirit's falcon that its wing may soar again.
There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius:
Into work the poet kneads them, and he does not die _till then_.
CONCLUSION.
I.
Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever
Still in hot and heavy splashes fell the tears on every leaf.
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief.
II.
