Elizabeth Barrett Browning — Where’s Agnes?

I. Nay, if I had come back so,        &nbspAnd found her dead in her grave, And if a friend I know        &nbspHad said, “Be strong, nor rave: She lies there, dead below: II. “I saw her, I who speak,        &nbspWhite, stiff, the face one blank: The blue shade came to her cheek        &nbspBefore they nailed the plank, For she had been dead a week.” III. Why, if he had spoken so,        &nbspI might have believed the thing, Although her look, although        &nbspHer step, laugh, voice’s ring Lived in me still as they do. IV. But dead that other way,        &nbspCorrupted thus and lost? That sort of worm in the clay?        &nbspI cannot count the cost, That I should rise and pay. V. My Agnes false? such shame?        &nbspShe? Rather be it said That the pure saint of her name        &nbspHas stood there in her stead, And tricked you to this blame. VI. Her very gown, her cloak        &nbspFell chastely: no disguise, But expression! while she broke        &nbspWith her clear grey morning-eyes Full upon me and then spoke. VII. She wore her hair away        &nbspFrom her forehead,—like a cloud Which a little wind in May        &nbspPeels off finely: disallowed Though bright enough to stay. VIII. For the heavens must have the place        &nbspTo themselves, to use and shine in, As her soul would have her face        &nbspTo press through upon mine, in That orb of angel grace. IX. Had she any fault at all,        &nbsp’T was having none, I thought too— There seemed a sort of thrall;        &nbspAs she felt her shadow ought to Fall straight upon the wall. X. Her sweetness strained the sense        &nbspOf common life and duty; And every day’s expense        &nbspOf moving in such beauty Required, almost, defence. XI. What good, I thought, is done        &nbspBy such sweet things, if any? This world smells ill i’ the sun        &nbspThough the garden-flowers are many,— She is only one. XII. Can a voice so low and soft        &nbspTake open actual part With Right,—maintain aloft        &nbspPure truth in life or art, Vexed always, wounded oft?— XIII. She fit, with that fair pose        &nbspWhich melts from curve to curve, To stand, run, work with those        &nbspWho wrestle and deserve, And speak plain without glose? XIV. But I turned round on my fear        &nbspDefiant, disagreeing— What if God has set her here        &nbspLess for action than for Being?— For the eye and for the ear. XV. Just to show what beauty may,        &nbspJust to prove what music can,— And then to die away        &nbspFrom the presence of a man, Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray? XVI. As a door, left half ajar        &nbspIn heaven, would make him think How heavenly-different are        &nbspThings glanced at through the chink, Till he pined from near to far. XVII. That door could lead to hell?        &nbspThat shining merely meant Damnation? What! She fell        &nbspLike a woman, who was sent Like an angel, by a spell? XVIII. She, who scarcely trod the earth,        &nbspTurned mere dirt? My Agnes,—mine! Called so! felt of too much worth        &nbspTo be used so! too divine To be breathed near, and so forth! XIX. Why, I dared not name a sin        &nbspIn her presence: I went round, Clipped its name and shut it in        &nbspSome mysterious crystal sound,— Changed the dagger for the pin. XX. Now you name herself that word?        &nbspO my Agnes! O my saint! Then the great joys of the Lord        &nbspDo not last? Then all this paint Runs off nature? leaves a board? XXI. Who’s dead here? No, not she:        &nbspRather I! or whence this damp Cold corruption’s misery?        &nbspWhile my very mourners stamp Closer in the clods on me. XXII. And my mouth is full of dust        &nbspTill I cannot speak and curse— Speak and damn him ... “Blame’s unjust”?        &nbspSin blots out the universe, All because she would and must? XXIII. She, my white rose, dropping off        &nbspThe high rose-tree branch! and not That the night-wind blew too rough,        &nbspOr the noon-sun burnt too hot, But, that being a rose—’t was enough! XXIV. Then henceforth may earth grow trees!        &nbspNo more roses!—hard straight lines To score lies out! none of these        &nbspFluctuant curves, but firs and pines, Poplars, cedars, cypresses!