Poems

The Importance of Elsewhere
By Philip Larkin

Lonely in Ireland, since it was not home,

Strangeness made sense. The salt rebuff of speech,

Insisting so on difference, made me welcome:

Once that was recognised, we were in touch

Their draughty streets, end-on to hills, the faint

Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable,

The herring-hawker's cry, dwindling, went 

To Prove me separate, not unworkable.

Living in England has no such excuse:

These are my customs and establishments

It would be much more serious to refuse.

Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence. 

Porphyria's Lover

By Robert Browning

The rain set early tonight,

   The sullen wind was soon to wake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite

    And did its worst to vex the lake:

    I listened with a 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 giver 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!