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Two In The Campagna

Written by: Robert Browning | Biography
 | Quotes (91) |
 I wonder how 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 yellow 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 O 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 Our 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.



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