Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Where's Agnes? lyrics

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