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. #porphyria#lover#poetry#robertbrowning#love#drawing#artwork#beauty#pencil#literature#lit#like4like#likeforfollow