May 12, 2022

Public Poetry. E.B. Browning.

Aurora Leigh, First Book.

 In those days, though, I never analysed
 Myself even. All analysis comes late.
 You catch a sight of Nature, earliest,
 In full front sun-face, and your eyelids wink
 And drop before the wonder of ‘t; you miss
 The form, through seeing the light. I lived, those days,
 And wrote because I lived–unlicensed else:
 My heart beat in my brain. Life’s violent flood
 Abolished bounds,–and, which my neighbour’s field,
 Which mine, what mattered? It is so in youth.
 We play at leap-frog over the god Term;
 The love within us and the love without
 Are mixed, confounded; if we are loved or love,
 We scarce distinguish. So, with other power.
 Being acted on and acting seem the same:
 In that first onrush of life’s chariot-wheels,
 We know not if the forests move or we.
 And so, like most young poets, in a flush
 Of individual life, I poured myself
 Along the veins of others, and achieved
 Mere lifeless imitations of life verse,
 And made the living answer for the dead,
 Profaning nature. ‘Touch not, do not taste,
 Nor handle,’–we’re too legal, who write young:
 We beat the phorminx till we hurt our thumbs,
 As if still ignorant of counterpoint;
 We call the Muse ... ‘O Muse, benignant Muse!’–
 As if we had seen her purple-braided head.
 With the eyes in it start between the boughs
 As often as a stag’s. What make-believe,
 With so much earnest! what effete results,
 From virile efforts! what cold wire-drawn odes
 From such white heats!–bucolics, where the cows
 Would scare the writer if they splashed the mud
 In lashing off the flies,–didactics, driven
 Against the heels of what the master said;
 And counterfeiting epics, shrill with trumps
 A babe might blow between two straining cheeks
 Of bubbled rose, to make his mother laugh;
 And elegiac griefs, and songs of love,
 Like cast-off nosegays picked up on the road,
 The worse for being warm: all these things, writ
 On happy mornings, with a morning heart,
 That leaps for love, is active for resolve,
 Weak for art only. Oft, the ancient forms
 Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young blood.
 The wine-skins, now and then, a little warped,
 Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles in.
 Spare the old bottles!–spill not the new wine.
 By Keats’s soul, the man who never stepped
 In gradual progress like another man,
 But, turning grandly on his central self,
 Ensphered himself in twenty perfect years
 And died, not young,–(the life of a long life,
 Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a tear
 Upon the world’s cold cheek to make it burn
 For ever;) by that strong excepted soul,
 I count it strange, and hard to understand,
 That nearly all young poets should write old;
 That Pope was sexagenarian at sixteen,
 And beardless Byron academical,
 And so with others. It may be, perhaps,
 Such have not settled long and deep enough
 In trance, to attain to clairvoyance,–and still
 The memory mixes with the vision, spoils,
 And works it turbid.
                   Or perhaps, again,
 In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx,
 The melancholy desert must sweep round,
 Behind you, as before.–
 For me, I wrote
 False poems, like the rest, and thought them true.
 Because myself was true in writing them.
 I, peradventure, have writ true ones since
 With less complacence.
                     But I could not hide
 My quickening inner life from those at watch.
 They saw a light at a window now and then,
 They had not set there. Who had set it there?
 My father’s sister started when she caught
 My soul agaze in my eyes. She could not say
 I had no business with a sort of soul,
 But plainly she objected,–and demurred,
 That souls were dangerous things to carry straight
 Through all the spilt saltpetre of the world.
 She said sometimes, ‘Aurora, have you done
 Your task this morning?–have you read that book?
 And are you ready for the crochet here?’–
 As if she said, ‘I know there’s something wrong,
 I know I have not ground you down enough
 To flatten and bake you to a wholesome crust
 For household uses and proprieties,
 Before the rain has got into my barn
 And set the grains a-sprouting. What, you’re green
 With out-door impudence? you almost grow?’
 To which I answered, ‘Would she hear my task,
 And verify my abstract of the book?
 And should I sit down to the crochet work?
 Was such her pleasure?’ ... Then I sate and teased
 The patient needle til it split the thread,
 Which oozed off from it in meandering lace
 From hour to hour. I was not, therefore, sad;
 My soul was singing at a work apart
 Behind the wall of sense, as safe from harm
 As sings the lark when sucked up out of sight,
 In vortices of glory and blue air.
 And so, through forced work and spontaneous work,
 The inner life informed the outer life,
 Reduced the irregular blood to settled rhythms,
 Made cool the forehead with fresh-sprinkling dreams,
 And, rounding to the spheric soul the thin
 Pined body, struck a colour up the cheeks,
 Though somewhat faint. I clenched my brows across
 My blue eyes greatening in the looking-glass,
 And said, ‘We’ll live, Aurora! we’ll be strong.
 The dogs are on us–but we will not die.’ 
eb brown
Thank you for Sharing me.
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