Cristina
I.
She
should
never
have
looked
at
me
If
she
meant
I
should
not
love
her!
There
are
plenty…
men,
you
call
such,
I
suppose…
she
may
discover
All
her
soul
to,
if
she
pleases,
And
yet
leave
much
as
she
found
them:
But
I'm
not
so,
and
she
knew
it
When
she
fixed
me,
glancing
round
them,
II.
What?
To
fix
me
thus
meant
nothing?
But
I
can't
tell
(there's
my
weakness)
What
her
look
said!—-no
vile
cant,
sure,
About
``need
to
strew
the
bleakness
``Of
some
lone
shore
with
its
pearl-seed.
``That
the
sea
feels''—-no
strange
yearning
``That
such
souls
have,
most
to
lavish
``Where
there's
chance
of
least
returning.''
III.
Oh,
we're
sunk
enough
here,
God
knows!
But
not
quite
so
sunk
that
moments,
Sure
tho'
seldom,
are
denied
us,
When
the
spirit's
true
endowments
Stand
out
plainly
from
its
false
ones,
And
apprise
it
if
pursuing
Or
the
right
way
or
the
wrong
way,
To
its
triumph
or
undoing.
IV.
There
are
flashes
struck
from
midnights,
There
are
fire-flames
noondays
kindle,
Whereby
piled-up
honours
perish,
Whereby
swollen
ambitions
dwindle,
While
just
this
or
that
poor
impulse,
Which
for
once
had
play
unstifled,
Seems
the
sole
work
of
a
life-time
That
away
the
rest
have
trifled.
V.
Doubt
you
if,
in
some
such
moment,
As
she
fixed
me,
she
felt
clearly,
Ages
past
the
soul
existed,
Here
an
age
'tis
resting
merely,
And
hence
fleets
again
for
ages,
While
the
true
end,
sole
and
single,
It
stops
here
for
is,
this
love-way,
With
some
other
soul
to
mingle?
VI.
Else
it
loses
what
it
lived
for,
And
eternally
must
lose
it;
Better
ends
may
be
in
prospect,
Deeper
blisses
(if
you
choose
it),
But
this
life's
end
and
this
love-bliss
Have
been
lost
here.
Doubt
you
whether
This
she
felt
as,
looking
at
me,
Mine
and
her
souls
rushed
together?
VII.
Oh,
observe!
Of
course,
next
moment,
The
world's
honours,
in
derision,
Trampled
out
the
light
for
ever:
Never
fear
but
there's
provision
Of
the
devil's
to
quench
knowledge
Lest
we
walk
the
earth
in
rapture!
—-Making
those
who
catch
God's
secret
Just
so
much
more
prize
their
capture!
VIII.
Such
am
I:
the
secret's
mine
now!
She
has
lost
me,
I
have
gained
her;
Her
soul's
mine:
and
thus,
grown
perfect,
I
shall
pass
my
life's
remainder.
Life
will
just
hold
out
the
proving
Both
our
powers,
alone
and
blended:
And
then,
come
next
life
quickly!
This
world's
use
will
have
been
ended.
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.