O God, where does this tend—these struggling aims? 
What would I have? What is this ‘sleep’, which seems 
To bound all? can there be a ‘waking’ point 
Of crowning life? The soul would never rule— 
It would be first in all things—it would have 
Its utmost pleasure filled,—but that complete 
Commanding for commanding sickens it. 
The last point I can trace is, rest beneath 
Some better essence than itself—in weakness; 
This is ‘myself’—not what I think should be 
And what is that I hunger for but God? 
My God, my God! let me for once look on thee 
As tho’ nought else existed: we alone. 
And as creation crumbles, my soul’s spark 
Expands till I can say, ‘Even from myself 
I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee; 
I do not plead my rapture in thy works 
For love of thee—or that I feel as one 
Who cannot die—but there is that in me 
Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.’ 

Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress? 
Why have I laboured to put out my life? 
Is it not in my nature to adore, 
And e’en for all my reason do I not 
Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him—now? 
Can I forgo the trust that he loves me? 
Do I not feel a love which only ONE… 
O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed, 
I have denied thee calmly—do I not 
Pant when I read of thy consummate deeds, 
And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash 
The brightest gleams of earth’s philosophy? 
Do I not shake to hear aught question thee? 
If I am erring save me, madden me, 
Take from me powers and pleasures—let me die. 
Ages, so I see thee: I am knit round 
As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride, 
Yet tho’ my wandering dreams have seen all shapes 
Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee— 
Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee 
In the damp night by weeping Olivet, 
Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less— 
Or dying with thee on the lonely cross— 
Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb!

Added: Mar 16 2005 | Viewed: 824 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Robert Browning
Poem: From 'Pauline'

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