Eerie Poem with a Sweet Message

None of us have time to blog as papers are due days away, but I wanted to share a poem I've been thinking about recently, Robert Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover.” The poem trails a man who sits alone in his cottage one stormy night when the object of his affection, a beautiful and high-class maiden, Porphyria, storms into his abode. Porphyria warms the small home with her fair beauty and a shocking confession – she loves him too! She offers herself to him for the night, but admits because of her higher position in society, she could never marry him. 

Consumed by her confession, the purity of their love, and their love’s inevitable squandering, Porphyria’s lover strangles her with her own hair. He then spends the latter of the night holding her in his arms, basking in the moment. On the surface, Browning’s poem appears to tell the tale of a madman who without a sufficient motive kills his lover. However, the story is actually a love story about a man, who discovers a way to capture fleeting love forever, and saves himself in the process.

And, no, I don't think you should kill your lovers, but I think the ultimate idea of the poem is rather enchanting. Come on, if you could capture those short-lived, passing moments, wouldn't you? Anyway, hope you all enjoy it!

Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm'right-tops down for spite,
and did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me--she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet god has not said a word!


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