The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-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 endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night’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 worshipped 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!
Christine Bradfield
Thank you for including this poem. Is it unique in poetry? It looks at the murder as if it is a commonplace action, and no one will condemn him for that. Even God?
Certainly your reading of it made it much more understandable and your talk afterwards. It is so dark, and quite frightening . Something that could give one nightmares.
I wonder why he wrote it? It makes me think that it is something he thought of actually doing and by writing the poem it released him.
Thank you again, it is so interesting to delve deeper and hear more unusual literature.
Christine Bradfield
Susannah Fullerton
Yes, it is a dark and really rather scary poem, isn’t it. I am glad you found my comments helpful. I cannot think of any other poem that is narrated by a murderer and which describes a murder, so I think it must be unique. Browning’s later verse became very dark and complex. Watch out for another fabulous poem for my Gold Class members soon.
Barbara Nixon
Very chilling, but intriguing. I thoroughly enjoyed your insight and interpretation of the poem, especially the last two lines. Well done, and I look forward to more.
Susannah Fullerton
I am so glad you found my commentary useful. It is a memorable poem.