Porphyria's Lover
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.When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneeled and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soiled gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd 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--sheToo weak, for all her heart's endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night's gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipped me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree 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: againLaughed the blue eyes without a stain.And I untightened next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss:I propped her head up as before,Only, this time my shoulder boreHer 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 howHer 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!
Words in this poem
- sullen a.
- Lonely; solitary; desolate. Wyclif (Job iii. 14). [OE. solein, solain, lonely, sullen; through Old French fr. (assumed) LL. solanus solitary, fr. L. solus alone. See Sole, a.]
- tore n.
- The dead grass that remains on mowing land in winter and spring. Mortimer. [Probably from the root of tear; cf. W. tór a break, cut, tóri to break, cut.]
- dripping n.
- A falling in drops, or the sound so made.
- endeavour v. t.
- To exert physical or intellectual strength for the attainment of; to use efforts to effect; to strive to achieve or reach; to try; to attempt. [OE. endevor; pref. en- + dever, devoir, duty, F. devoir: cf. F. se mettre en devoir de faire quelque chose to try to do a thing, to go about it. See Devoir, Deb]
- dissever v. t.
- To part in two; to sever thoroughly; to sunder; to disunite; to separate; to disperse. [OE. dessevrer; pref. des- (L. dis-) + sevrer to sever, F. sevrer to wean, L. separate to separate. In this word the prefix is intensive. See Dis-, and Sever.]
- warily adv.
- In a wary manner.
- tress n.
- A braid, knot, or curl, of hair; a ringlet. [OE. tresse, OF. trece, F. tresse, LL. tricia, fr. Gr. tri`cha threefold, because a tress is usually formed by interlacing three pieces; akin to trei^s three. Se]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Porphyria's Lover is in the public domain. This text is taken from Dramatic Romances, Project Gutenberg ebook #4253; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Robert Browning, Porphyria's Lover, in Dramatic Lyrics (1842), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #4253, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/browning-dramatic-lyrics/porphyria-s-lover.html, id L03556.
Form and metre
Porphyria's Lover is 60 lines in 2 stanzas of 30 lines each. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 89%). 98% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.1 syllables. 3 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 35% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABABBCDCDDEFEFFGHGHHIJI-JKLKLL nightA · awakeB · spiteA · lakeB · breakB · straightC · stormD · grateC · warmD · formD · shawlE · untiedF · fallE · sideF · repliedF · waistG · bareH · displacedG · thereH · hairH · sheI · endeavourJ · freeI · dissever · everJ · prevailK · restrainL · paleK · vainL · rainL
- 2 ABABBCDCDDEFEFF-G-GGHIHIIJKJKK eyesA · knewB · surpriseA · grewB · doB · fairC · foundD · hairC · woundD · aroundD · sheE · painF · beeE · againF · stainF · tress · moreG · kiss · beforeG · boreG · stillH · headI · willH · fledI · insteadI · howJ · heardK · nowJ · stirredK · wordK
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| The rain set early in to-night, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The sullen wind was soon awake, | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| It tore the elm-tops down for spite, | 8 | ········ |
| And did its worst to vex the lake: | 8 | ········ |
| I listened with heart fit to break. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| When glided in Porphyria; straight | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| She shut the cold out and the storm, | 8 | ········ |
| And kneeled and made the cheerless grate | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Which done, she rose, and from her form | 8 | ········ |
| Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, | 8 | ˘/·/˘··· |
| And laid her soiled gloves by, untied | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Her hat and let the damp hair fall, | 8 | ········ |
| And, last, she sat down by my side | 8 | ········ |
| And called me. When no voice replied, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| She put my arm about her waist, | 8 | ········ |
| And made her smooth white shoulder bare, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And all her yellow hair displaced, | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Murmuring how she loved me--she | 8 | /˘˘····· |
| Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, | 9 | ······˘/˘ |
| To set its struggling passion free | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| From pride, and vainer ties dissever, | 9 | ······˘/˘ |
| And give herself to me for ever. | 9 | ··˘/···/˘ |
| But passion sometimes would prevail, | 8 | ·/˘/··˘/ |
| Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain | 8 | ······˘/ |
| A sudden thought of one so pale | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| For love of her, and all in vain: | 8 | ········ |
| So, she was come through wind and rain. | 8 | ········ |
| Be sure I looked up at her eyes | 8 | ········ |
| Happy and proud; at last I knew | 8 | /˘······ |
| Porphyria worshipped me; surprise | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| Made my heart swell, and still it grew | 8 | ········ |
| While I debated what to do. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| That moment she was mine, mine, fair, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Perfectly pure and good: I found | 8 | /˘˘····· |
| A thing to do, and all her hair | 8 | ········ |
| In one long yellow string I wound | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Three times her little throat around, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| And strangled her. No pain felt she; | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| I am quite sure she felt no pain. | 8 | ········ |
| As a shut bud that holds a bee, | 8 | ········ |
| I warily oped her lids: again | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. | 8 | ········ |
| And I untightened next the tress | 8 | ········ |
| About her neck; her cheek once more | 8 | ········ |
| Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| I propped her head up as before, | 8 | ········ |
| Only, this time my shoulder bore | 8 | /˘···/˘· |
| Her head, which droops upon it still: | 8 | ········ |
| The smiling rosy little head, | 8 | ·/˘/˘/˘· |
| So glad it has its utmost will, | 8 | ·····/·· |
| That all it scorned at once is fled, | 8 | ········ |
| And I, its love, am gained instead! | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Porphyria's love: she guessed not how | 8 | ········ |
| Her darling one wish would be heard. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| And thus we sit together now, | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| And all night long we have not stirred, | 8 | ········ |
| And yet God has not said a word! | 8 | ········ |
On this poem
"Porphyria's Lover" relates how, by strangling Porphyria with her own yellow hair, the lover seized and preserved the moment of perfect love when, pure and good, Porphyria left the world she could not forego for his sake, and came to him, for once conquered by her love. A latent misgiving as to his action is intimated in the closing line of the poem. Remarking upon the fact that Browning removed the original title, "Madhouse Cells," which headed this poem, and "Johannes Agricola in Meditation," Mrs. Orr says: "Such a crime might be committed in a momentary aberration, or even intense excitement of feeling. It is characterized here by a matter-of-fact simplicity, which is its sign of madness. The distinction, however, is subtle; and we can easily guess why this and its companion poem did not retain their title. A madness which is fit for dramatic treatment is not sufficiently removed from sanity."
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.