Porphyria’s Lover
by Robert Browning
   
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. 5
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 10
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, 15
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, 20
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. 25
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. 30
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. 35
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, 40
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. 45
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 50
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! 55
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! 60
   

 
Porphyria’s Lover — This poem originally appeared in 1836 in the magazine The Monthly Repository under the title “Porphyria.” In 1842, Browning published it as one of a set of two under the collective title “Madhouse Cells” (without any titles for the two specific poems) in his volume Dramatic Lyrics. The other poem, which he later named “Johannes Agricola in Meditation,” is about a man who believes that because salvation is achieved by faith alone, he may commit any sin without fear of divine punishment. Browning may have based “Porphyria’s Lover” on an actual murder reported in Blackwood’s Magazine in 1818.
 
Porphyria — Greek for purple, a color that has been associated with royalty since ancient times because purple dyes were the most expensive to produce. Porphyry is a purple, marble-like stone used in the construction of temples and other grand buildings. Recently, doctors had given the name porphyria to an illness the symptoms of which include delusions and sensitivity to light; whether Browning was aware of this association or not is uncertain.
 
oped — opened 
  
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain — As anyone who has ever watched CSI can tell you, this would not be true. Strangulation will cause the appearance of petechiae (ruptured capillaries and blood vessels) in the whites of the eyes, turning them blood-red.