Elizabeth Barrett Browning — Bianca among the Nightingales

I. The cypress stood up like a church        &nbspThat night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search        &nbspAnd wash the whole world clean as gold; The olives crystallized the vales’        &nbspBroad slopes until the hills grew strong: The fire-flies and the nightingales        &nbspThrobbed each to either, flame and song. The nightingales, the nightingales! II. Upon the angle of its shade        &nbspThe cypress stood, self-balanced high; Half up, half down, as double-made,        &nbspAlong the ground, against the sky; And we, too! from such soul-height went        &nbspSuch leaps of blood, so blindly driven, We scarce knew if our nature meant        &nbspMost passionate earth or intense heaven The nightingales, the nightingales! III. We paled with love, we shook with love,        &nbspWe kissed so close we could not vow; Till Giulio whispered “Sweet, above        &nbspGod’s Ever guaranties this Now.” And through his words the nightingales        &nbspDrove straight and full their long clear call, Like arrows through heroic mails,        &nbspAnd love was awful in it all. The nightingales, the nightingales! IV. O cold white moonlight of the north,        &nbspRefresh these pulses, quench this hell! O coverture of death drawn forth        &nbspAcross this garden-chamber ... well! But what have nightingales to do        &nbspIn gloomy England, called the free ... (Yes, free to die in!...) when we two        &nbspAre sundered, singing still to me? And still they sing, the nightingales! V. I think I hear him, how he cried        &nbsp“My own soul’s life!” between their notes. Each man has but one soul supplied,        &nbspAnd that’s immortal. Though his throat’s On fire with passion now, to her        &nbspHe can’t say what to me he said! And yet he moves her, they aver.        &nbspThe nightingales sing through my head,— The nightingales, the nightingales! VI. He says to her what moves her most.        &nbspHe would not name his soul within Her hearing,—rather pays her cost        &nbspWith praises to her lips and chin. Man has but one soul, ’t is ordained,        &nbspAnd each soul but one love, I add; Yet souls are damned and love’s profaned;        &nbspThese nightingales will sing me mad! The nightingales, the nightingales! VII. I marvel how the birds can sing.        &nbspThere’s little difference, in their view, Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring        &nbspAs vital flames into the blue, And dull round blots of foliage meant,        &nbspLike saturated sponges here, To suck the fogs up. As content        &nbspIs he too in this land, ’t is clear. And still they sing, the nightingales. VIII. My native Florence! dear, forgone!        &nbspI see across the Alpine ridge How the last feast-day of Saint John        &nbspShot rockets from Carraia bridge. The luminous city, tall with fire,        &nbspTrod deep down in that river of ours, While many a boat with lamp and choir        &nbspSkimmed birdlike over glittering towers. I will not hear these nightingales. IX. I seem to float, we seem to float        &nbspDown Arno’s stream in festive guise; A boat strikes flame into our boat,        &nbspAnd up that lady seems to rise As then she rose. The shock had flashed        &nbspA vision on us! What a head, What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashed        &nbspTo splendour by a sudden dread. And still they sing, the nightingales. X. Too bold to sin, too weak to die;        &nbspSuch women are so. As for me, I would we had drowned there, he and I,        &nbspThat moment, loving perfectly. He had not caught her with her loosed        &nbspGold ringlets ... rarer in the south ... Nor heard the “Grazie tanto” bruised        &nbspTo sweetness by her English mouth. And still they sing, the nightingales. XI. She had not reached him at my heart        &nbspWith her fine tongue, as snakes indeed Kill flies; nor had I, for my part,        &nbspYearned after, in my desperate need, And followed him as he did her        &nbspTo coasts left bitter by the tide, Whose very nightingales, elsewhere        &nbspDelighting, torture and deride! For still they sing, the nightingales. XII. A worthless woman; mere cold clay        &nbspAs all false things are: but so fair, She takes the breath of men away        &nbspWho gaze upon her unaware. I would not play her larcenous tricks        &nbspTo have her looks! She lied and stole, And spat into my love’s pure pyx        &nbspThe rank saliva of her soul. And still they sing, the nightingales. XIII. I would not for her white and pink,        &nbspThough such he likes—her grace of limb, Though such he has praised—nor yet, I think.        &nbspFor life itself, though spent with him, Commit such sacrilege, affront        &nbspGod’s nature which is love, intrude ’Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt        &nbspLike spiders, in the altar’s wood. I cannot bear these nightingales. XIV. If she chose sin, some gentler guise        &nbspShe might have sinned in, so it seems: She might have pricked out both my eyes,        &nbspAnd I still seen him in my dreams! —Or drugged me in my soup or wine,        &nbspNor left me angry afterward: To die here with his hand in mine,        &nbspHis breath upon me, were not hard. (Our Lady hush these nightingales!) XV. But set a springe for him, “mio ben,”        &nbspMy only good, my first last love!— Though Christ knows well what sin is, when        &nbspHe sees some things done they must move Himself to wonder. Let her pass.        &nbspI think of her by night and day. Must I too join her ... out, alas!...        &nbspWith Giulio, in each word I say? And evermore the nightingales! XVI. Giulio, my Giulio!—sing they so,        &nbspAnd you be silent? Do I speak, And you not hear? An arm you throw        &nbspRound someone, and I feel so weak? —Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,        &nbspThey sing for hate, they sing for doom, They’ll sing through death who sing through night,        &nbspThey’ll sing and stun me in the tomb— The nightingales, the nightingales!