Poem Hunter
In A Year
(1812-1889 / London / England)

In A Year

Poem By Robert Browning

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 he looked as if I sung,
---Sweetly too.
If I spoke a word,
First of all
Up his cheek the colour sprang,
Then he heard.


Sitting by my side,
At my feet,
So he breathed but air I breathed,
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 perplexed
Grows belief!
Well, this cold clay clod
Was man's heart:
Crumble it, and what comes next?
Is it God?

User Rating: 3,0 / 5 ( 55 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

Outstanding expression and imagery's confluence with intense emotions Thanks for sharing it here.has been achieved in this great love poem by the great poet.
Not to be sexist though it will sound like I am, but I think women have the edge when it comes to loving long and loving through the hardships and loving come what may- - because women are imbued with what is needed to raise children for years and years. We're long-distance runners, raised and bred. Men and their affections are sprinters- raised and bred for short distances. Since they have to pursue and catch all those fillies, they don't have the time to be long-distance runners. This poem is a beauty, though.
``Speak, I love thee best! '' ``Speak, I love thee best! '' ``Speak, I love thee best! ''......................Tragically, it 's a dream in a lifetime!
love the choice of words and thethe arrangement... nice poem
............a wonderful poem with an exceptional ending ★ Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart: Crumble it, and what comes next? Is it God?