Two in the Campagna
I wonder do you feel todayAs I have felt since, hand in hand,We sat down on the grass, to strayIn 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 throwMocking across our path) for rhymesTo catch at and let go.
Help me to hold it! First it leftThe yellowing fennel, run to seedThere, branching from the brickwork's cleft,Some old tomb's ruin; yonder weedTook up the floating weft,
Where one small orange cup amassedFive beetles--blind and green they gropeAmong the honey-meal; and last,Everywhere on the grassy slopeI traced it. Hold it fast!
The champaign with its endless fleeceOf 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 wayWhile 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 controlTo 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 coreO' the wound, since wound must be?
I would I could adopt your will,See with your eyes, and set my heartBeating by yours, and drink my fillAt your soul's springs--your part my partIn 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 roseAnd love it more than tongue can speak--Then the good minute goes.
Already how am I so farOut of that minute? Must I goStill 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 painOf finite hearts that yearn.
Words in this poem
- morn n.
- The first part of the day; the morning; -- used chiefly in poetry. [OE. morwen, morgen, AS. morgen; akin to D. morgen, OS. morgan, G. morgen, Icel. morginn, morgunn, Sw. morgon, Dan. morgen, Goth. maúrgins. Cf. Morrow, Morning.]
- yellowing n.
- The act or process of making yellow.
- yonder adv.
- At a distance, but within view. [OE. yonder, ýonder; cf. OD. ginder, Goth. jaindr there. Yond, adv.]
- champaign n.
- A flat, open country. [OF. champaigne; same word as campagne.]
- ghost n.
- The spirit; the soul of man. [OE. gast, gost, soul, spirit, AS. gast breath, spirit, soul; akin to OS. g spirit, soul, D. geest, G. geist, and prob. to E. gaze, ghastly.]
- primal a.
- First; primary; original; chief. [LL. primalis, fr. L. primus the first. See Prime, a.]
- yearn v. t.
- To pain; to grieve; to vex. [Also earn, ern; probably a corruption of OE. ermen to grieve, AS. ierman, yrman, or geierman, geyrman, fr. earm wretched, poor; akin to D. & G. arm, Icel. armr,]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Two in the Campagna is in the public domain. This text is taken from Selections from the Poems and Plays of Robert Browning, Project Gutenberg ebook #28041; 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, Two in the Campagna, in Selections from the Poems and Plays of Robert Browning (1864), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #28041, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/browning-selections/two-in-the-campagna.html, id L25095.
Form and metre
Two in the Campagna is 60 lines in 12 stanzas of 5 lines each. Every stanza rhymes ABABA. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 89%).
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 ABABA todayA · handB · strayA · landB · mayA
- 2 ABABA knowA · timesB · throwA · rhymesB · goA
- 3 ABABA leftA · seedB · cleftA · weedB · weftA
- 4 ABABA amassedA · gropeB · lastA · slopeB · fastA
- 5 ABABA fleeceA · everywhereB · peaceA · airB · deceaseA
- 6 ABABA hoursA · playB · flowersA · wayB · towersA
- 7 ABABA doveA · soulB · aboveA · controlB · loveA
- 8 ABABA meA · moreB · freeA · coreB · beA
- 9 ABABA willA · heartB · fillA · partB · illA
- 10 ABABA closeA · cheekB · roseA · speakB · goesA
- 11 ABABA farA · goB · barA · blowB · starA
- 12 ABABA learnA · againB · discernA · painB · yearnA
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 |
|---|---|---|
| I wonder do you feel today | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| As I have felt since, hand in hand, | 8 | ········ |
| We sat down on the grass, to stray | 8 | ········ |
| In spirit better through the land, | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| This morn of Rome and May? | 6 | ······ |
| For me, I touched a thought, I know, | 8 | ········ |
| Has tantalized me many times, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| (Like turns of thread the spiders throw | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Mocking across our path) for rhymes | 8 | /˘˘//··· |
| To catch at and let go. | 6 | ······ |
| Help me to hold it! First it left | 8 | ········ |
| The yellowing fennel, run to seed | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Some old tomb's ruin; yonder weed | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Took up the floating weft, | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Where one small orange cup amassed | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| Five beetles--blind and green they grope | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Among the honey-meal; and last, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Everywhere on the grassy slope | 8 | /˘···/˘· |
| I traced it. Hold it fast! | 7 | ··˘···· |
| The champaign with its endless fleece | 8 | ·˘/··/˘· |
| Of feathery grasses everywhere! | 8 | ·/˘/˘/˘· |
| Silence and passion, joy and peace, | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| An everlasting wash of air-- | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| Rome's ghost since her decease. | 6 | ····˘/ |
| Such life here, through such lengths of hours, | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Such miracles performed in play, | 8 | ·/˘˘˘/·· |
| Such primal naked forms of flowers, | 9 | ·/˘/˘··/˘ |
| Such letting nature have her way | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| While heaven looks from its towers! | 8 | ·/˘···/˘ |
| How say you? Let us, O my dove, | 8 | ········ |
| Let us be unashamed of soul, | 8 | ····˘/·· |
| As earth lies bare to heaven above! | 8 | ·····/·· |
| How is it under our control | 8 | ·····/˘/ |
| To love or not to love? | 6 | ······ |
| I would that you were all to me, | 8 | ········ |
| You that are just so much, no more, | 8 | ········ |
| Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! | 8 | ········ |
| Where does the fault lie? What the core | 8 | ········ |
| O' the wound, since wound must be? | 7 | ······· |
| I would I could adopt your will, | 8 | ····˘/·· |
| See with your eyes, and set my heart | 8 | ········ |
| Beating by yours, and drink my fill | 8 | /˘······ |
| At your soul's springs--your part my part | 8 | ········ |
| In life, for good and ill. | 6 | ······ |
| No. I yearn upward, touch you close, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| Catch your soul's warmth--I pluck the rose | 8 | ········ |
| And love it more than tongue can speak-- | 8 | ········ |
| Then the good minute goes. | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Already how am I so far | 8 | ˘/˘····· |
| Out of that minute? Must I go | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Onward, whenever light winds blow, | 8 | /˘˘/˘··· |
| Fixed by no friendly star? | 7 | ·˘··/˘· |
| Just when I seemed about to learn! | 8 | ········ |
| Where is the thread now? Off again! | 8 | ······˘/ |
| The old trick! Only I discern-- | 8 | ···/˘·˘/ |
| Infinite passion, and the pain | 8 | /˘˘/˘··· |
| Of finite hearts that yearn. | 6 | ·/···· |
On this poem
Notes from the edition 1
Notes by Myra Reynolds, Selections from the Poems and Plays of Robert Browning (Project Gutenberg #28041).
- Stanza 2, line 1 I touched a thought. The elusive thought which he fancifully pursues from point to point in the surrounding landscape finds statement in lines 34-60. Of these lines Sharp (Life of Browning, p. 159) says, "There is a gulf which not the profoundest search can fathom, which not the strongest-winged love can overreach: the gulf of individuality. It is those who have loved most deeply who recognize most acutely this always pathetic and often terrifying isolation of the soul. None save the weak can believe in the absolute union of two spirits ... No man, no poet assuredly, could love as Browning loved, and fail to be aware, often with vague anger and bitterness, no doubt, of this insuperable isolation even when spirit seemed to leap to spirit, in the touch of a kiss, in the evanishing sigh of some one or other exquisite moment."
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