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About this Poem 

“Now” was published in Browning’s book Asolando: Fancies and Facts (Smith, Elder, & Co., 1889).

Now

Out of your whole life give but a moment! 
All of your life that has gone before, 
All to come after it,—so you ignore, 
So you make perfect the present,—condense, 
In a rapture of rage, for perfection’s endowment, 
Thought and feeling and soul and sense—
Merged in a moment which gives me at last 
You around me for once, you beneath me, above me—
Me—sure that despite of time future, time past,—
This tick of our life-time’s one moment you love me! 
How long such suspension may linger? Ah, Sweet—
The moment eternal—just that and no more—
When ecstasy’s utmost we clutch at the core 
While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut and lips meet! 

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Robert Browning

Robert Browning

Although playwright and poet Robert Browning was slow to receive acclaim for his work, his later work earned him renown and respect in his career, and the techniques he developed through his dramatic monologues—especially his use of diction, rhythm, and symbol—are regarded as his most important contribution to poetry, influencing such major poets of the twentieth century as Ezra PoundT. S. Eliot, and ...

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All, that I know
   Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
   (Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
   Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
   They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
   They must solace themselves with
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Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair: such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,
Spent with the vast and howling main,
To treasure half their island-gain.

And strew faint
poem
The gray sea and the long black land;  
And the yellow half-moon large and low:  
And the startled little waves that leap  
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,  
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.  
  
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;  
Three fields to cross till