This seems like a good place to share with you readers one
of my favorite Browning poems. (You must imagine every line
capitalized & every other line indented.)
I've always admired this poem for its skillful use of a very complex rhyme scheme, as well as its emotional power.
The speaker is a young woman.
IN A YEAR
Never any more
while I live,
need I hope to see his face
as before.
Once his love grown chill,
mine may strive--
bitterly we re-embrace,
single still.
Was it something said,
something done,
vexed him? was it touch of hand,
turn of head?
Strange! that very way
love begun.
I as little understand
love's decay.
When I sewed or drew,
I recall
how looked as if I sang
-sweetly too.
If I spoke a word,
first of all
up his cheek the color sprang,
then he heard.
Sitting by my side,
at my feet,
so he breathed the air I breathed,
satisfied!
I, too, at love's brim
touched the sweet:
I would die if death bequeathed
sweet to him.
"Speak, I love thee best!"
he exclaimed.
"Let thy love my own foretell,--"
I confessed:
"Clasp my heart on thine,
now unblamed,
since upon thy soul as well
hangeth mine!"
Was it wrong to own,
being truth?
Why should all the giving prove
his alone?
I had wealth and ease,
beauty, youth--
since my lover gave me love,
I gave these.
That was all I meant
-to be just,
and the passion I had raised
to content.
Since he chose to change
gold for dust,
if I gave him what he praised,
was it strange?
Would he loved me yet,
on and on,
while I found some way undreamed
-paid my debt!
Gave more life and more,
till, all gone,
he should smile, "She never seemed
mine before."
"What - she felt the while,
must I think?
Love's so different with us men,"
he should smile.
"Dying for my sake -
white and pink!
Can't we touch these bubbles then
but they break?"
Dear, the pang is brief.
Do thy part,
have thy pleasure. How perplext
grows belief!
Well, this cold clay clod
was man's heart.
Crumble it - and what comes next?
Is it God?
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