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                10

   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,                 20

   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.                30

   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,                  40

   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                       50

   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!                       60

   NOTES:

   "Porphyria's Lover" relates how, by strangling Porphyria

   with her own yellow hair, the lover seized and preserved

   the moment of perfect love when, pure and good, Porphyria

   left the world she could not forego for his sake,

   and came to him, for once conquered by her love.  A

   latent misgiving as to his action is intimated in the closing

   line of the poem.

           Remarking upon the fact that Browning removed the

   original title, "Madhouse Cells," which headed this poem,

   and "Johannes Agricola in Meditation," Mrs. Orr says:

   "Such a crime might be committed in a momentary

   aberration, or even intense excitement of feeling.  It is

   characterized here by a matter-of-fact simplicity, which is

   its sign of madness.  The distinction, however, is subtle;

   and we can easily guess why this and its companion poem

   did not retain their title.  A madness which is fit for

   dramatic treatment is not sufficiently removed from

   sanity."