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Two in the Campagna

I wonder do you feel today
     As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
     In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know,
     Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
     Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.

Help me to hold it! First it left
     The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
     Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,

Where one small orange cup amassed
     Five beetles—blind and green they grope
Among the honey-meal: and last,
     Everywhere on the grassy slope
I traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleece
     Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
     An everlasting wash of air—
Rome's ghost since her decease.

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
     Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
     Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!

How say you? Let us, O my dove,
     Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
     How is it under our control
To love or not to love?

I would that you were all to me,
     You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
     Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will,
     See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
     At your soul's springs—your part my part
In life, for good and ill.

No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
     Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth—I pluck the rose
     And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.

Already how am I so far
     Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
     Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?

Just when I seemed about to learn!
     Where is the thread now? Off again!
The old trick! Only I discern—
     Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.

by: Robert Browning

This couldn't be closer to how I feel at this moment.

comments (2) 08-04-2004

The People's Comments:

hey.. i really like what youve done with thw site its really nice. so what do all these poems mean? are they there for a resone.?? or just cause they are nice poems? well anyways. i like them.mannn... you do something to me:) ttyl

too long to read but sounds okay... the first few lines i guess....just cuz its on your site i love it...i guess?

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