Audio recording (download wav.file)

  (courtesy Rothe Technologies, Inc.)

Robert Browning (1812-1889):

Two in the Campagna

I wonder do you feel to-day

    As I have felt since, hand in hand,

We sat down on the grass, to stray

    In spirit better through the land,

This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know,

    Has tantalized me many times

(Like turns of thread the spiders throw,

    Mocking, across our path) for rhymes

To catch at and let go.

Help me to hold it! First it left

    The yellowing fennel, run to seed

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,

    Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed

Took up the floating weft,

Where one small orange cup amassed

    Five beetles,--blind and green they grope

Among the honey-meal: and last,

    Everywhere on the grassy slope

I traced it. Hold it fast!
    I traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleece

    Of feathery grasses everywhere!

Silence and passion, joy and peace,

    An everlasting wash of air,--

Rome's ghost since her decease.

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,

    Such miracles performed in play,

Such primal naked forms of flowers,

    Such letting nature have her way

While heaven looks from its towers!

How say you? Let us, O my dove,

    Let us be unashamed of soul,

As earth lies bare to heaven above!

    How is it under our control

To love or not to love?

I would that you were all to me,

    You that are just so much, no more.

Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!

    Where does the fault lie? What the core

O' the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will,

    See with your eyes, and set my heart

Beating by yours, and drink my fill

    At your soul's springs, -- your part my part

In life, for good and ill.

No. I yearn upward, touch you close,

    Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,

Catch your soul's warmth,--I pluck the rose

    And love it more than tongue can speak --

Then the good minute goes.

Already how am I so far

    Out of that minute? Must I go

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,

    Onward, whenever light winds blow,

Fixed by no friendly star?

Just when I seemed about to learn!

    Where is the thread now? Off again!

The old trick! Only I discern--

    Infinite passion, and the pain

Of finite hearts that yearn.

Browning (Boston and New York, Houghton Mifflin, 1895) 189.