(no subject)
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
(In which I go into biographical mode)
Elizabeth Barrett Browning is one of my favorite poets. I'm sure most of you already know her story, but for those who don't, it's one of the most romantic real-life stories ever enacted on the real stage. For most of her life she led a lonely, introverted existence much like Emily Dickinson; after injuring her spine in a childhood fall she developed a mysterious and largely untreatable illness that nearly killed her several times and she was forced to keep at home because of it. She interacted only with family and a small circle of friends and neighbours. After her favorite brother drowned in 1838, she became depressed and a permanent invalid. She passed her time writing poetry and gathered many admirers and critical acclaim, but led the same quiet life she always had. Then in 1844 Robert Browning wrote to her expressing his admiration for her poetry-and a little more than that-No offhand complimentary letter shall I write to thee She had already read much of his poetry and actually written a poem in praise of it. At that point she was living with her tyrannical and extremely protective father, who had forbidden her to ever marry anyone, and Elizabeth was very shy. They wrote back and forth for five months before she let him come to see her. They fell in love immediately, but knew that her father would never condone the marriage, and it took much patient wooing and courtship on Robert's side to get Elizabeth to confess her love, overcome her fears of her father and her illness, and consent to run away with him. 575 letters later, almost daily visits, and sixteen months after they met , they were secretly married and left for Italy. Happily married and living in sunny Florence, Elizabeth got her health back and they had a son named Pen. But after five years her health went down again, caused by constant illness, her father's refusal to forgive her, and finally his death. After 15 years of marriage and living, she died in her husband's arms.
(In which I go out of biographical mode)
Anway, during the period of courtship, she wrote some of her best love poetry in the form of the beloved Sonnets from the Portuguese, although she didn't show it to Robert until after they'd been married for three years. (Portugese was Robert's pet name for her, she being dark-haired and ethereal Elizabeth-hmm-have you noticed how all the best female literary characters are named Elizabeth-re Elizabeth Gaskell and Elizabeth Bennet?)They are absolutely lovely-Robert Browning himself thought some of them were as good as Shakespeare. Here's a selection of what I've been reading...
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,--he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it!--this . . . the paper's light . . .
Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
XXIX
I think of thee!--my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee,
Drop heavily down,--burst, shattered everywhere!
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air.
XXXV
I do not think of thee--I am too near thee.
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thy heart wide,
And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.
(icons from
alivicwil) And here is an actual love letter written from Robert Browning to Elizabeth Browning-'If I should repent"
Here is an interesting short biography of their relationship, and here is a lovely , short, but detailed story of what happened after their marriage- On this day in 1846, Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning married secretly. And here is the complete text for Sonnets from the Portuguese -read it in sections or scroll down to read the whole thing. In conlusion:
XXI
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me,
Though the word repeated
Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
Cry, "Speak once more--thou lovest!" Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me--toll
The silver iterance!--only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.
(In which I go into biographical mode)
Elizabeth Barrett Browning is one of my favorite poets. I'm sure most of you already know her story, but for those who don't, it's one of the most romantic real-life stories ever enacted on the real stage. For most of her life she led a lonely, introverted existence much like Emily Dickinson; after injuring her spine in a childhood fall she developed a mysterious and largely untreatable illness that nearly killed her several times and she was forced to keep at home because of it. She interacted only with family and a small circle of friends and neighbours. After her favorite brother drowned in 1838, she became depressed and a permanent invalid. She passed her time writing poetry and gathered many admirers and critical acclaim, but led the same quiet life she always had. Then in 1844 Robert Browning wrote to her expressing his admiration for her poetry-and a little more than that-No offhand complimentary letter shall I write to thee She had already read much of his poetry and actually written a poem in praise of it. At that point she was living with her tyrannical and extremely protective father, who had forbidden her to ever marry anyone, and Elizabeth was very shy. They wrote back and forth for five months before she let him come to see her. They fell in love immediately, but knew that her father would never condone the marriage, and it took much patient wooing and courtship on Robert's side to get Elizabeth to confess her love, overcome her fears of her father and her illness, and consent to run away with him. 575 letters later, almost daily visits, and sixteen months after they met , they were secretly married and left for Italy. Happily married and living in sunny Florence, Elizabeth got her health back and they had a son named Pen. But after five years her health went down again, caused by constant illness, her father's refusal to forgive her, and finally his death. After 15 years of marriage and living, she died in her husband's arms.
(In which I go out of biographical mode)
Anway, during the period of courtship, she wrote some of her best love poetry in the form of the beloved Sonnets from the Portuguese, although she didn't show it to Robert until after they'd been married for three years. (Portugese was Robert's pet name for her, she being dark-haired and ethereal Elizabeth-hmm-have you noticed how all the best female literary characters are named Elizabeth-re Elizabeth Gaskell and Elizabeth Bennet?)They are absolutely lovely-Robert Browning himself thought some of them were as good as Shakespeare. Here's a selection of what I've been reading...
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,--he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it!--this . . . the paper's light . . .
Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
XXIX
I think of thee!--my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee,
Drop heavily down,--burst, shattered everywhere!
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air.
XXXV
I do not think of thee--I am too near thee.
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thy heart wide,
And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.
(icons from
alivicwil) And here is an actual love letter written from Robert Browning to Elizabeth Browning-'If I should repent"
Here is an interesting short biography of their relationship, and here is a lovely , short, but detailed story of what happened after their marriage- On this day in 1846, Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning married secretly. And here is the complete text for Sonnets from the Portuguese -read it in sections or scroll down to read the whole thing. In conlusion:
XXI
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me,
Though the word repeated
Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
Cry, "Speak once more--thou lovest!" Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me--toll
The silver iterance!--only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.