Strange Love – Darkling, I Listen

At Her Door by Roderic Quinn

Open! Open! Open!
I am here at your door outside;
The sea’s blue tide flows speedily,
And ebbs a thin red tide.’
The woman rose from her warm white bed,
Threw back her hair and smiled;
The ears of scorn heard the words of love,
And the wind and the words were wild.
‘Wake! Awake! Awake!
And hearken the woe outside;
The moon is hid in cloudiness;
Calleth and calleth the tide.’
The woman stood in the silence still
As a thing men carve from stone.
Her eyes burned largely in the dark,
And the smile, like a stain, stayed on.
‘Listen! Listen! Listen!
Hear you the rain to-night?
A warm dark rain is falling too,
And I grow ghostly-white.’
The woman took three steps and bowed;
The smile waned from her lip;
She heard the dripping of the rain
And a soft thick other drip.
‘Open! Open! Open!
I die in the dark alone.
My voice goes up in weariness
Against your heart of stone.’
The moon to a cloud-cleft stealing
Gazed down on the yearning tide;
The woman opened the streaming door
And stood in the rain outside.
Silence! Stillness! She whispers,
‘Ah, Love, that death should be!’
He sighed, ‘Your lips are loveliness!’
And she sobbed, ‘Woe is me!’
The woman pressed his dead white face
With her face as deadly white:
The moon drew in behind a cloud,
And the tide moaned through the night.

The Vigil by Roderic Quinn

The rain is falling on the roof,

And no sound else disturbs the wife,

Except the trees and winds at strife,

Now near at hand and now aloof;

But listening, leaning evermore,

She waits a knock upon the door.
Her hair is braided round her head;

Her eyes are large and fierce and bright;

Her shapely throat is soft and white;

And on her mouth there burns the red

Of that rich, storied gem that shone

Upon the breast of Prester John.
Upon the couch her husband lies.

How is it that he lies so still?

Why sleeps he there so pale and chill,

The lamplight on his lidded eyes?

Has she not fire, and more than fire

To thrill his flesh with hot desire?
Anon she lifts her rounded arms

As though to feel that she is free;

And her large eyes exultantly

Light up, as when the dawn-glow charms

With roseate lights that gleam and glance

Twin pools to sudden radiance.
The rain is falling on the roof;

Yet, though her ears are open wide,

There is no other sound outside—

No fall of foot, nor tramp of hoof.

And on his couch with lidded eyes

The husband, cold and pallid, lies.
The midnight sky is wild and black

And drenches earth with ceaseless tears;

And now it seems to her she hears

Hoof-strokes upon the sodden track;

And now she rises, sweet as sin,

To let the late night-strayer in.
The lamplight gleams upon his face,

And glistens on his reddened spur;

He stretches out his arms to her

And folds her in a rude embrace… .

How can it be the husband lies

So still, with heavy-lidded eyes?
Perchance he neither sees nor hears,

And sleeps unmoved by chance or change.

And yet… .and yet, it seems so strange—

If he be dead there should be tears.

Not love nor smiles, nor midnight bliss,

Nor mouths that marry in a kiss.
The loud winds thrust upon the door,

The raindrops plash against the roof,

The trickles from a waterproof

Make little pools upon the floor;

No foe between, no more apart,

They stand, heart throbbing back to heart.
Anon she says: ‘He died this morn.

He did not die a whit too soon;

Life’s day, alas, makes towards its noon.

He should have died when love was born.

He should have died long since. And now

Kiss me again—my mouth, my brow!’

Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning

The rain set early in to-night,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me — she

Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshipped me; surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!