Two in the Campagna

Robert Browning

 
I
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?
II
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.
III
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,
IV
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!
V
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.
VI
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!
VII
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?
VIII
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?
IX
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.
X
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.
XI
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?
XII
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.
 

Poems by This Author

Life in a Love by Robert Browning
Escape me?
Love in a Life by Robert Browning
Room after room
Meeting at Night by Robert Browning
The gray sea and the long black land
My Last Duchess by Robert Browning
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
My Star by Robert Browning
All, that I know
Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning
Grow old along with me!
Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister by Robert Browning
Gr-r-r--there go, my heart's abhorrence!
Song from Paracelsus by Robert Browning
Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Robert Browning
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
Wanting is — What? by Robert Browning
Wanting is -- what