By The Fire-Side
I.
How
well
I
know
what
I
mean
to
do
When
the
long
dark
autumn-evenings
come:
And
where,
my
soul,
is
thy
pleasant
hue?
With
the
music
of
all
thy
voices,
dumb
In
life's
November
too!
II.
I
shall
be
found
by
the
fire,
suppose,
O'er
a
great
wise
book
as
beseemeth
age,
While
the
shutters
flap
as
the
cross-wind
blows
And
I
turn
the
page,
and
I
turn
the
page,
Not
verse
now,
only
prose!
III.
Till
the
young
ones
whisper,
finger
on
lip,
``There
he
is
at
it,
deep
in
Greek:
``Now
then,
or
never,
out
we
slip
``To
cut
from
the
hazels
by
the
creek
``A
mainmast
for
our
ship!''
IV.
I
shall
be
at
it
indeed,
my
friends:
Greek
puts
already
on
either
side
Such
a
branch-work
forth
as
soon
extends
To
a
vista
opening
far
and
wide,
And
I
pass
out
where
it
ends.
V.
The
outside-frame,
like
your
hazel-trees:
But
the
inside-archway
widens
fast,
And
a
rarer
sort
succeeds
to
these,
And
we
slope
to
Italy
at
last
And
youth,
by
green
degrees.
VI.
I
follow
wherever
I
am
led,
Knowing
so
well
the
leader's
hand:
Oh
woman-country,
wooed
not
wed,
Loved
all
the
more
by
earth's
male-lands,
Laid
to
their
hearts
instead!
VII.
Look
at
the
ruined
chapel
again
Half-way
up
in
the
Alpine
gorge!
Is
that
a
tower,
I
point
you
plain,
Or
is
it
a
mill,
or
an
iron-forge
Breaks
solitude
in
vain?
VIII.
A
turn,
and
we
stand
in
the
heart
of
things:
The
woods
are
round
us,
heaped
and
dim;
From
slab
to
slab
how
it
slips
and
springs,
The
thread
of
water
single
and
slim,
Through
the
ravage
some
torrent
brings!
IX.
Does
it
feed
the
little
lake
below?
That
speck
of
white
just
on
its
marge
Is
Pella;
see,
in
the
evening-glow,
How
sharp
the
silver
spear-heads
charge
When
Alp
meets
heaven
in
snow!
X.
On
our
other
side
is
the
straight-up
rock;
And
a
path
is
kept
'twixt
the
gorge
and
it
By
boulder-stones
where
lichens
mock
The
marks
on
a
moth,
and
small
ferns
fit
Their
teeth
to
the
polished
block.
XI.
Oh
the
sense
of
the
yellow
mountain-flowers
,
And
thorny
balls,
each
three
in
one,
The
chestnuts
throw
on
our
path
in
showers!
For
the
drop
of
the
woodland
fruit's
begun,
These
early
November
hours,
XII.
That
crimson
the
creeper's
leaf
across
Like
a
splash
of
blood,
intense,
abrupt,
O'er
a
shield
else
gold
from
rim
to
boss,
And
lay
it
for
show
on
the
fairy-cupped
Elf-needled
mat
of
moss,
XIII.
By
the
rose-flesh
mushrooms,
undivulged
Last
evening—-nay,
in
to-day's
first
dew
Yon
sudden
coral
nipple
bulged,
Where
a
freaked
fawn-coloured
flaky
crew
Of
toadstools
peep
indulged.
XIV.
And
yonder,
at
foot
of
the
fronting
ridge
That
takes
the
turn
to
a
range
beyond,
Is
the
chapel
reached
by
the
one-arched
bridge
Where
the
water
is
stopped
in
a
stagnant
pond
Danced
over
by
the
midge.
XV.
The
chapel
and
bridge
are
of
stone
alike,
Blackish-grey
and
mostly
wet;
Cut
hemp-stalks
steep
in
the
narrow
dyke.
See
here
again,
how
the
lichens
fret
And
the
roots
of
the
ivy
strike!
XVI.
Poor
little
place,
where
its
one
priest
comes
On
a
festa-day,
if
he
comes
at
all,
To
the
dozen
folk
from
their
scattered
homes,
Gathered
within
that
precinct
small
By
the
dozen
ways
one
roams—-
XVII.
To
drop
from
the
charcoal-burners
'
huts,
Or
climb
from
the
hemp-dressers'
low
shed,
Leave
the
grange
where
the
woodman
stores
his
nuts,
Or
the
wattled
cote
where
the
fowlers
spread
Their
gear
on
the
rock's
bare
juts.
XVIII.
It
has
some
pretension
too,
this
front,
With
its
bit
of
fresco
half-moon-wise
Set
over
the
porch,
Art's
early
wont:
'Tis
John
in
the
Desert,
I
surmise,
But
has
borne
the
weather's
brunt—-
XIX.
Not
from
the
fault
of
the
builder,
though,
For
a
pent-house
properly
projects
Where
three
carved
beams
make
a
certain
show,
Dating—-good
thought
of
our
architect's—-
'Five,
six,
nine,
he
lets
you
know.
XX.
And
all
day
long
a
bird
sings
there,
And
a
stray
sheep
drinks
at
the
pond
at
times;
The
place
is
silent
and
aware;
It
has
had
its
scenes,
its
joys
and
crimes,
But
that
is
its
own
affair.
XXI.
My
perfect
wife,
my
Leonor,
Oh
heart,
my
own,
oh
eyes,
mine
too,
Whom
else
could
I
dare
look
backward
for,
With
whom
beside
should
I
dare
pursue
The
path
grey
heads
abhor?
XXII.
For
it
leads
to
a
crag's
sheer
edge
with
them;
Youth,
flowery
all
the
way,
there
stops—-
Not
they;
age
threatens
and
they
contemn,
Till
they
reach
the
gulf
wherein
youth
drops,
One
inch
from
life's
safe
hem!
XXIII.
With
me,
youth
led…
I
will
speak
now,
No
longer
watch
you
as
you
sit
Reading
by
fire-light,
that
great
brow
And
the
spirit-small
hand
propping
it,
Mutely,
my
heart
knows
how—-
XXIV.
When,
if
I
think
but
deep
enough,
You
are
wont
to
answer,
prompt
as
rhyme;
And
you,
too,
find
without
rebuff
Response
your
soul
seeks
many
a
time
Piercing
its
fine
flesh-stuff.
XXV.
My
own,
confirm
me!
If
I
tread
This
path
back,
is
it
not
in
pride
To
think
how
little
I
dreamed
it
led
To
an
age
so
blest
that,
by
its
side,
Youth
seems
the
waste
instead?
XXVI.
My
own,
see
where
the
years
conduct!
At
first,
'twas
something
our
two
souls
Should
mix
as
mists
do;
each
is
sucked
In
each
now:
on,
the
new
stream
rolls,
Whatever
rocks
obstruct.
XXVII.
Think,
when
our
one
soul
understands
The
great
Word
which
makes
all
things
new,
When
earth
breaks
up
and
heaven
expands,
How
will
the
change
strike
me
and
you
ln
the
house
not
made
with
hands?
XXVIII.
Oh
I
must
feel
your
brain
prompt
mine,
Your
heart
anticipate
my
heart,
You
must
be
just
before,
in
fine,
See
and
make
me
see,
for
your
part,
New
depths
of
the
divine!
XXIX.
But
who
could
have
expected
this
When
we
two
drew
together
first
Just
for
the
obvious
human
bliss,
To
satisfy
life's
daily
thirst
With
a
thing
men
seldom
miss?
XXX.
Come
back
with
me
to
the
first
of
all,
Let
us
lean
and
love
it
over
again,
Let
us
now
forget
and
now
recall,
Break
the
rosary
in
a
pearly
rain,
And
gather
what
we
let
fall!
XXXI.
What
did
I
say?—-that
a
small
bird
sings
All
day
long,
save
when
a
brown
pair
Of
hawks
from
the
wood
float
with
wide
wings
Strained
to
a
bell:
'gainst
noon-day
glare
You
count
the
streaks
and
rings.
XXXII.
But
at
afternoon
or
almost
eve
'Tis
better;
then
the
silence
grows
To
that
degree,
you
half
believe
It
must
get
rid
of
what
it
knows,
Its
bosom
does
so
heave.
XXXIII.
Hither
we
walked
then,
side
by
side,
Arm
in
arm
and
cheek
to
cheek,
And
still
I
questioned
or
replied,
While
my
heart,
convulsed
to
really
speak,
Lay
choking
in
its
pride.
XXXIV.
Silent
the
crumbling
bridge
we
cross,
And
pity
and
praise
the
chapel
sweet,
And
care
about
the
fresco's
loss,
And
wish
for
our
souls
a
like
retreat,
And
wonder
at
the
moss.
XXXV.
Stoop
and
kneel
on
the
settle
under,
Look
through
the
window's
grated
square:
Nothing
to
see!
For
fear
of
plunder,
The
cross
is
down
and
the
altar
bare,
As
if
thieves
don't
fear
thunder.
XXXVI.
We
stoop
and
look
in
through
the
grate,
See
the
little
porch
and
rustic
door,
Read
duly
the
dead
builder's
date;
Then
cross
the
bridge
that
we
crossed
before,
Take
the
path
again—-but
wait!
XXXVII.
Oh
moment,
one
and
infinite!
The
water
slips
o'er
stock
and
stone;
The
West
is
tender,
hardly
bright:
How
grey
at
once
is
the
evening
grown—-
One
star,
its
chrysolite!
XXXVIII.
We
two
stood
there
with
never
a
third,
But
each
by
each,
as
each
knew
well:
The
sights
we
saw
and
the
sounds
we
heard,
The
lights
and
the
shades
made
up
a
spell
Till
the
trouble
grew
and
stirred.
XXXIX.
Oh,
the
little
more,
and
how
much
it
is!
And
the
little
less,
and
what
worlds
away!
How
a
sound
shall
quicken
content
to
bliss,
Or
a
breath
suspend
the
blood's
best
play,
And
life
be
a
proof
of
this!
XL.
Had
she
willed
it,
still
had
stood
the
screen
So
slight,
so
sure,
'twixt
my
love
and
her:
I
could
fix
her
face
with
a
guard
between,
And
find
her
soul
as
when
friends
confer,
Friends—-lovers
that
might
have
been.
XLI.
For
my
heart
had
a
touch
of
the
woodland-time,
Wanting
to
sleep
now
over
its
best.
Shake
the
whole
tree
in
the
summer-prime,
But
bring
to
the
Iast
leaf
no
such
test!
``Hold
the
last
fast!''
runs
the
rhyme.
XLII.
For
a
chance
to
make
your
little
much,
To
gain
a
lover
and
lose
a
friend,
Venture
the
tree
and
a
myriad
such,
When
nothing
you
mar
but
the
year
can
mend:
But
a
last
leaf—-fear
to
touch!
XLIII.
Yet
should
it
unfasten
itself
and
fall
Eddying
down
till
it
find
your
face
At
some
slight
wind—-best
chance
of
all!
Be
your
heart
henceforth
its
dwelling-place
You
trembled
to
forestall!
XLIV.
Worth
how
well,
those
dark
grey
eyes,
That
hair
so
dark
and
dear,
how
worth
That
a
man
should
strive
and
agonize,
And
taste
a
veriest
hell
on
earth
For
the
hope
of
such
a
prize!
XIIV.
You
might
have
turned
and
tried
a
man,
Set
him
a
space
to
weary
and
wear,
And
prove
which
suited
more
your
plan,
His
best
of
hope
or
his
worst
despair,
Yet
end
as
he
began.
XLVI.
But
you
spared
me
this,
like
the
heart
you
are,
And
filled
my
empty
heart
at
a
word.
If
two
lives
join,
there
is
oft
a
scar,
They
are
one
and
one,
with
a
shadowy
third;
One
near
one
is
too
far.
XLVII.
A
moment
after,
and
hands
unseen
Were
hanging
the
night
around
us
fast
But
we
knew
that
a
bar
was
broken
between
Life
and
life:
we
were
mixed
at
last
In
spite
of
the
mortal
screen.
XLVIII.
The
forests
had
done
it;
there
they
stood;
We
caught
for
a
moment
the
powers
at
play:
They
had
mingled
us
so,
for
once
and
good,
Their
work
was
done—-we
might
go
or
stay,
They
relapsed
to
their
ancient
mood.
XLIX.
How
the
world
is
made
for
each
of
us!
How
all
we
perceive
and
know
in
it
Tends
to
some
moment's
product
thus,
When
a
soul
declares
itself—-to
wit,
By
its
fruit,
the
thing
it
does
L.
Be
hate
that
fruit
or
love
that
fruit,
It
forwards
the
general
deed
of
man,
And
each
of
the
Many
helps
to
recruit
The
life
of
the
race
by
a
general
plan;
Each
living
his
own,
to
boot.
LI.
I
am
named
and
known
by
that
moment's
feat;
There
took
my
station
and
degree;
So
grew
my
own
small
life
complete,
As
nature
obtained
her
best
of
me—-
One
born
to
love
you,
sweet!
LII.
And
to
watch
you
sink
by
the
fire-side
now
Back
again,
as
you
mutely
sit
Musing
by
fire-light,
that
great
brow
And
the
spirit-small
hand
propping
it,
Yonder,
my
heart
knows
how!
LIII.
So,
earth
has
gained
by
one
man
the
more,
And
the
gain
of
earth
must
be
heaven's
gain
too;
And
the
whole
is
well
worth
thinking
o'er
When
autumn
comes:
which
I
mean
to
do
One
day,
as
I
said
before.
Robert Browning
Robert Browning (born May 7, 1812, London—died Dec. 12, 1889, Venice) major English poet of the Victorian age, noted for his mastery of dramatic monologue and psychological portraiture. His most noted work was The Ring and the Book (1868–69), the story of a Roman murder trial in 12 books. Through all the vicissitudes of critical reputation, however, Browning’s major contribution to the canon of children’s literature, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” has retained its popular audience. At the time of his death in 1889, he was one of the most popular poets in England.