Poems
A Lovers’ Quarrel
I.
Oh, what a dawn of day!
How the March sun feels like May!
All is blue again
After last night’s rain,
And the South dries the hawthorn-spray.
Only, my Love’s away!
I’d as lief that the blue were grey,
II.
Runnels, which rillets swell,
Must be dancing down the dell,
With a foaming head
On the beryl bed
Paven smooth as a hermit’s cell;
Each with a tale to tell,
Could my Love but attend as well.
III.
Dearest, three months ago!
When we lived blocked-up with snow,—-
When the wind would edge
In and in his wedge,
In, as far as the point could go—-
Not to our ingle, though,
Where we loved each the other so!
IV.
Laughs with so little cause!
We devised games out of straws.
We would try and trace
One another’s face
In the ash, as an artist draws;
Free on each other’s flaws,
How we chattered like two church daws!
V.
What’s in the `Times”?—-a scold
At the Emperor deep and cold;
He has taken a bride
To his gruesome side,
That’s as fair as himself is bold:
There they sit ermine-stoled,
And she powders her hair with gold.
VI.
Fancy the Pampas’ sheen!
Miles and miles of gold and green
Where the sunflowers blow
In a solid glow,
And—-to break now and then the screen—-
Black neck and eyeballs keen,
Up a wild horse leaps between!
VII.
Try, will our table turn?
Lay your hands there light, and yearn
Till the yearning slips
Thro’ the finger-tips
In a fire which a few discern,
And a very few feel burn,
And the rest, they may live and learn!
VIII.
Then we would up and pace,
For a change, about the place,
Each with arm o’er neck:
‘Tis our quarter-deck,
We are seamen in woeful case.
Help in the ocean-space!
Or, if no help, we’ll embrace.
IX.
See, how she looks now, dressed
In a sledging-cap and vest!
‘Tis a huge fur cloak—-
Like a reindeer’s yoke
Falls the lappet along the breast:
Sleeves for her arms to rest,
Or to hang, as my Love likes best.
X.
Teach me to flirt a fan
As the Spanish ladies can,
Or I tint your lip
With a burnt stick’s tip
And you turn into such a man!
Just the two spots that span
Half the bill of the young male swan.
XI.
Dearest, three months ago
When the mesmerizer Snow
With his hand’s first sweep
Put the earth to sleep:
‘Twas a time when the heart could show
All—-how was earth to know,
‘Neath the mute hand’s to-and-fro?
XII.
Dearest, three months ago
When we loved each other so,
Lived and loved the same
Till an evening came
When a shaft from the devil’s bow
Pierced to our ingle-glow,
And the friends were friend and foe!
XIII.
Not from the heart beneath—-
‘Twas a bubble born of breath,
Neither sneer nor vaunt,
Nor reproach nor taunt.
See a word, how it severeth!
Oh, power of life and death
In the tongue, as the Preacher saith!
XIV.
Woman, and will you cast
For a word, quite off at last
Me, your own, your You,—-
Since, as truth is true,
I was You all the happy past—-
Me do you leave aghast
With the memories We amassed?
XV.
Love, if you knew the light
That your soul casts in my sight,
How I look to you
For the pure and true
And the beauteous and the right,—-
Bear with a moment’s spite
When a mere mote threats the white!
XVI.
What of a hasty word?
Is the fleshly heart not stirred
By a worm’s pin-prick
Where its roots are quick?
See the eye, by a fly’s foot blurred—-
Ear, when a straw is heard
Scratch the brain’s coat of curd!
XVII.
Foul be the world or fair
More or less, how can I care?
‘Tis the world the same
For my praise or blame,
And endurance is easy there.
Wrong in the one thing rare—-
Oh, it is hard to bear!
XVIII.
Here’s the spring back or close,
When the almond-blossom blows:
We shall have the word
In a minor third
There is none but the cuckoo knows:
Heaps of the guelder-rose!
I must bear with it, I suppose.
XIX.
Could but November come,
Were the noisy birds struck dumb
At the warning slash
Of his driver’s-lash—-
I would laugh like the valiant Thumb
Facing the castle glum
And the giant’s fee-faw-fum!
XX.
Then, were the world well stripped
Of the gear wherein equipped
We can stand apart,
Heart dispense with heart
In the sun, with the flowers unnipped,—-
Oh, the world’s hangings ripped,
We were both in a bare-walled crypt!
XXI.
Each in the crypt would cry
“But one freezes here! and why?
“When a heart, as chill,
“At my own would thrill
“Back to life, and its fires out-fly?
“Heart, shall we live or die?
“The rest. . . . settle by-and-by!”
XXII.
So, she’d efface the score,
And forgive me as before.
It is twelve o’clock:
I shall hear her knock
In the worst of a storm’s uproar,
I shall pull her through the door,
I shall have her for evermore!
Oh, what a dawn of day!
How the March sun feels like May!
All is blue again
After last night’s rain,
And the South dries the hawthorn-spray.
Only, my Love’s away!
I’d as lief that the blue were grey,
II.
Runnels, which rillets swell,
Must be dancing down the dell,
With a foaming head
On the beryl bed
Paven smooth as a hermit’s cell;
Each with a tale to tell,
Could my Love but attend as well.
III.
Dearest, three months ago!
When we lived blocked-up with snow,—-
When the wind would edge
In and in his wedge,
In, as far as the point could go—-
Not to our ingle, though,
Where we loved each the other so!
IV.
Laughs with so little cause!
We devised games out of straws.
We would try and trace
One another’s face
In the ash, as an artist draws;
Free on each other’s flaws,
How we chattered like two church daws!
V.
What’s in the `Times”?—-a scold
At the Emperor deep and cold;
He has taken a bride
To his gruesome side,
That’s as fair as himself is bold:
There they sit ermine-stoled,
And she powders her hair with gold.
VI.
Fancy the Pampas’ sheen!
Miles and miles of gold and green
Where the sunflowers blow
In a solid glow,
And—-to break now and then the screen—-
Black neck and eyeballs keen,
Up a wild horse leaps between!
VII.
Try, will our table turn?
Lay your hands there light, and yearn
Till the yearning slips
Thro’ the finger-tips
In a fire which a few discern,
And a very few feel burn,
And the rest, they may live and learn!
VIII.
Then we would up and pace,
For a change, about the place,
Each with arm o’er neck:
‘Tis our quarter-deck,
We are seamen in woeful case.
Help in the ocean-space!
Or, if no help, we’ll embrace.
IX.
See, how she looks now, dressed
In a sledging-cap and vest!
‘Tis a huge fur cloak—-
Like a reindeer’s yoke
Falls the lappet along the breast:
Sleeves for her arms to rest,
Or to hang, as my Love likes best.
X.
Teach me to flirt a fan
As the Spanish ladies can,
Or I tint your lip
With a burnt stick’s tip
And you turn into such a man!
Just the two spots that span
Half the bill of the young male swan.
XI.
Dearest, three months ago
When the mesmerizer Snow
With his hand’s first sweep
Put the earth to sleep:
‘Twas a time when the heart could show
All—-how was earth to know,
‘Neath the mute hand’s to-and-fro?
XII.
Dearest, three months ago
When we loved each other so,
Lived and loved the same
Till an evening came
When a shaft from the devil’s bow
Pierced to our ingle-glow,
And the friends were friend and foe!
XIII.
Not from the heart beneath—-
‘Twas a bubble born of breath,
Neither sneer nor vaunt,
Nor reproach nor taunt.
See a word, how it severeth!
Oh, power of life and death
In the tongue, as the Preacher saith!
XIV.
Woman, and will you cast
For a word, quite off at last
Me, your own, your You,—-
Since, as truth is true,
I was You all the happy past—-
Me do you leave aghast
With the memories We amassed?
XV.
Love, if you knew the light
That your soul casts in my sight,
How I look to you
For the pure and true
And the beauteous and the right,—-
Bear with a moment’s spite
When a mere mote threats the white!
XVI.
What of a hasty word?
Is the fleshly heart not stirred
By a worm’s pin-prick
Where its roots are quick?
See the eye, by a fly’s foot blurred—-
Ear, when a straw is heard
Scratch the brain’s coat of curd!
XVII.
Foul be the world or fair
More or less, how can I care?
‘Tis the world the same
For my praise or blame,
And endurance is easy there.
Wrong in the one thing rare—-
Oh, it is hard to bear!
XVIII.
Here’s the spring back or close,
When the almond-blossom blows:
We shall have the word
In a minor third
There is none but the cuckoo knows:
Heaps of the guelder-rose!
I must bear with it, I suppose.
XIX.
Could but November come,
Were the noisy birds struck dumb
At the warning slash
Of his driver’s-lash—-
I would laugh like the valiant Thumb
Facing the castle glum
And the giant’s fee-faw-fum!
XX.
Then, were the world well stripped
Of the gear wherein equipped
We can stand apart,
Heart dispense with heart
In the sun, with the flowers unnipped,—-
Oh, the world’s hangings ripped,
We were both in a bare-walled crypt!
XXI.
Each in the crypt would cry
“But one freezes here! and why?
“When a heart, as chill,
“At my own would thrill
“Back to life, and its fires out-fly?
“Heart, shall we live or die?
“The rest. . . . settle by-and-by!”
XXII.
So, she’d efface the score,
And forgive me as before.
It is twelve o’clock:
I shall hear her knock
In the worst of a storm’s uproar,
I shall pull her through the door,
I shall have her for evermore!
Analysis (ai): The poem progresses from natural observation to intimate recollection, culminating in emotional plea and resignation. Initial descriptions of weather and season set a tone of renewal, immediately undercut by personal absence. The contrast between external beauty and internal distress frames the speaker’s emotional priority: love disrupted outweighs natural harmony. Nostalgia emerges early, not idealized but detailed, grounding affection in domestic moments.
Memory as Counterpoint to Conflict: Repetitive invocation of “three months ago” structures the poem as a backward glance, emphasizing rupture. Unlike many Browning dramatic monologues centered on singular psychological states, this one layers temporality—present sorrow, recent joy, sudden fracture. The quarrel is not narrated dramatically but inferred through absence and regret, a shift from his more theatrical character studies. Domestic imagery—the ingle, ash drawings, table-turning—reflects Victorian fascination with private life and spiritualism, yet subverts it by showing intimacy unraveling under trivial tension.
Form and Lyric Voice: The poem’s sixteen quatrains with consistent rhyme and meter differ from Browning’s usual irregular forms and male-dominated dramatic voices; here, the speaker is ungendered, and the form leans toward Romantic lyricism. Unlike his more ironic or detached personas, the voice here is vulnerable and direct, echoing Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s emotional transparency more than his own typical irony. The simplicity of diction and refrain-like repetitions aligns it with mid-century song-like verse, distinct from his complex syntax in poems like My Last Duchess.
Language and Symbolism: Archaic touches—”rillets,” “ingle,” “stoled”—lend a timeless, almost folkloric quality, distancing the poem from strict realism. These choices soften the domestic scene into something ritualized, framing love as both sheltered and fragile. Natural elements—hawthorn, almond blossom, cuckoo—are seasonal markers not merely of change but of cyclical return, contrasting with the speaker’s fear of irreversible rupture.
Modern Resonance and Underexamined Theme: While often read as a simple lovers’ tiff, the poem quietly interrogates the weight of minor language. The focus on a “hasty word” as world-toppling shifts attention from grand betrayal to the fragility of relational syntax. This preoccupation with small linguistic acts as destructive forces anticipates 20th-century concerns with communication breakdown, aligning it more with modernist interiority than Victorian moralism. Within Browning’s canon, the poem stands out for its minimalism and emotional restraint, avoiding melodrama while suggesting lasting psychological unease.
Memory as Counterpoint to Conflict: Repetitive invocation of “three months ago” structures the poem as a backward glance, emphasizing rupture. Unlike many Browning dramatic monologues centered on singular psychological states, this one layers temporality—present sorrow, recent joy, sudden fracture. The quarrel is not narrated dramatically but inferred through absence and regret, a shift from his more theatrical character studies. Domestic imagery—the ingle, ash drawings, table-turning—reflects Victorian fascination with private life and spiritualism, yet subverts it by showing intimacy unraveling under trivial tension.
Form and Lyric Voice: The poem’s sixteen quatrains with consistent rhyme and meter differ from Browning’s usual irregular forms and male-dominated dramatic voices; here, the speaker is ungendered, and the form leans toward Romantic lyricism. Unlike his more ironic or detached personas, the voice here is vulnerable and direct, echoing Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s emotional transparency more than his own typical irony. The simplicity of diction and refrain-like repetitions aligns it with mid-century song-like verse, distinct from his complex syntax in poems like My Last Duchess.
Language and Symbolism: Archaic touches—”rillets,” “ingle,” “stoled”—lend a timeless, almost folkloric quality, distancing the poem from strict realism. These choices soften the domestic scene into something ritualized, framing love as both sheltered and fragile. Natural elements—hawthorn, almond blossom, cuckoo—are seasonal markers not merely of change but of cyclical return, contrasting with the speaker’s fear of irreversible rupture.
Modern Resonance and Underexamined Theme: While often read as a simple lovers’ tiff, the poem quietly interrogates the weight of minor language. The focus on a “hasty word” as world-toppling shifts attention from grand betrayal to the fragility of relational syntax. This preoccupation with small linguistic acts as destructive forces anticipates 20th-century concerns with communication breakdown, aligning it more with modernist interiority than Victorian moralism. Within Browning’s canon, the poem stands out for its minimalism and emotional restraint, avoiding melodrama while suggesting lasting psychological unease.
Robert Browning
(7 May 1812 – 12 December 1889) was an English poet and playwright whose dramatic monologues put him high among the Victorian poets. He was noted for irony, characterization, dark humour, social commentary, historical settings and challenging vocabulary and syntax.
His early long poems Pauline (1833) and Paracelsus (1835) were acclaimed, but his reputation dwindled for a time – his 1840 poem Sordello was seen as wilfully obscure – and took over a decade to recover, by which time he had moved from Shelleyan forms to a more personal style. In 1846, he married fellow poet Elizabeth Barrett and moved to Italy. By her death in 1861, he had published the collection Men and Women (1855). His Dramatis Personae (1864) and book-length epic poem The Ring and the Book (1868–1869) made him a leading poet. By his death in 1889, he was seen as a sage and philosopher-poet who had fed into Victorian social and political discourse. Societies for studying his work survived in Britain and the US into the 20th century.
