Confessions
a poem by Robert Browning
What is he buzzing in my ears?
‘Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?’
Ah, reverend sir, not I!
What I viewed there once, what I view again
Where the physic bottles stand
On the table’s edge,―is a suburb lane,
With a wall to my bedside hand.
That land sloped, much as the bottles do,
From a house you could descry
O’er the garden-wall : is the curtain blue
Or green to a healthy eye?
To mine, it serves for the old June weather
Blue above lane and wall;
And that farthest bottle labeled ‘Ether’
Is the house o’ertopping all.
At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,
There watched for me, one June,
A girl : I know, sir, it’s improper,
My poor mind’s out of tune.
Only, there was a way . . . you crept
Close by the side, to dodge
Eyes in the house, two eyes except :
They styled their house ‘The Lodge.’
What right had a lounger up their lane?
But, by creeping very close,
With the good wall’s help,―their eyes might strain
And stretch themselves to Oes,
Yet never catch her and me together,
As she left the attic, there,
By the rim of the bottle labeled ‘Ether’,
And stole from stair to stair,
And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,
We loved, sir―used to meet :
How sad and bad and mad it was―
But then, how it was sweet!
A website offering fresh, original and exclusive material by writers who espouse the philosophy that “Words Matter” and believe that imagination is the seed of accomplishment.
We are passionate about the world we inhabit; Aware there are two sides to every story. Persistent in our pursuit of all points of view.
A place to think, to laugh, to shed a tear. Where words are gifts that feed the soul; ignite a flame within the heart; excite the recesses of the brain; spark passions and concerns; inspire the conscious and subconscious.
Join Spillwords for this and more…
- In Warsaw - November 17, 2024
- Prelude: The Troops - November 10, 2024
- The Charge - November 3, 2024
