April 1 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
“Oh! to Be in England Now That April’s There”
Everyone knows the pangs of homesickness in the spring. Even bright, sparkling Italy could not wean Browning’s affection from the green hedgerows of misty England.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Poems
Robert Browning
Begins at “661 Home-thoughts, from Abroad,” two thirds down page 1068; the close of “The Lost Leader” above it ends the December 12 reading.
661 Home-thoughts, from Abroad
O, TO be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!
And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
662 Home-thoughts, from the Sea
NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray;‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
663 Parting at Morning
ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rim:And straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
664 The Lost Mistress
ALL’S over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns gray.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
665 The Last Ride Together
I SAID—Then, dearest, since ’tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seem’d meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame;Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers,Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fix’d me a breathing-while or twoWith life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenish’d me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’dBy many benedictions—sun’sAnd moon’s and evening-star’s at once—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and linger’d—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
Then we began to ride. My soulSmooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new,As the world rush’d by on either side.I thought,—All labour, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
What hand and brain went ever pair’d?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen?We ride and I see her bosom heave.There’s many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier’s doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you express’dYou hold things beautiful the best,And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then,Have you yourself what’s best for men?Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turn’d a rhyme?Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that’s your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend,Put in music we know how fashions end!’I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy being—had I sign’d the bond—Still one must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the questEarth being so good, would heaven seem best?Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life’s best, with our eyes upturn’dWhither life’s flower is first discern’d,We, fix’d so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
666 Pippa’s Song
THE year’s at the spring,And day’s at the morn;Morning’s at seven;The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn;God’s in His heaven—All’s right with the world!
667 You’ll Love Me Yet
YOU’LL love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love’s protracted growing:June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April’s sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.
You’ll look at least on love’s remains,A grave’s one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What’s death? You’ll love me yet!
Ends with “You’ll Love Me Yet” at the foot of page 1073; “My Last Duchess,” which fills page 1074, is read on May 7, whose assignment begins on that page.
Volume 42, pages 1068–1074 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for April 1 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 42. There the assignment reads “Vol. 42, pp. 1068–1074.” Read it in the guide.