Bad Dreams II
By Robert Browning
You in the flesh and here,
Your very self! Now, wait!
One word! May I hope or fear?
Must I speak in love or hate?
Stay while I ruminate!
The fact and each circumstance
Dare you disown? Not you!
That vast dome, that huge dance,
And the gloom which overgrew
A possibly festive crew!
For why should men dance at all
Why women a crowd of both
Unless they are gay? Strange ball
Hands and feet plighting troth,
Yet partners enforced and loth!
Of who danced there, no shape
Did I recognize: thwart, perverse,
Each grasped each, past escape
In a whirl or weary or worse:
Mans sneer met womans curse,
While he and she toiled as if
Their guardian set galley-slaves
To supple chained limbs grown stiff:
Unmanacled trulls and knaves
The lash for who misbehaves!
And a gloom was, all the while,
Deeper and deeper yet
Oergrowing the rank and file
Of that army of haters set
To mimic loves fever-fret.
By the wall-side close I crept.
Avoiding the livid maze.
And, safely so far, outstepped
On a chamber, a chapel, says
My memory or betrays
Closet-like, kept aloof
From unseemly witnessing
What sport made floor and roof
Of the Devils palace ring
While his Damned amused their king.
Ay, for a low lamp burned,
And a silence lay about
What I, in the midst, discerned
Though dimly till, past doubt,
Twas a sort of throne stood out
High seat with steps, at least:
And the topmost step was filled
By whom? What vestured priest?
A stranger to me, his guild,
His cult, unreconciled
To my knowledge how guild and cult
Are clothed in this world of ours:
I pondered, but no result
Came to, unless that Giaours
So worship the Lower Powers.
When suddenly who entered?
Who knelt, did you guess I saw?
Who, raising that face were centred
Allegiance to love and law
So lately, off-casting awe,
Down-treading reserve, away
Thrusting respect . . . but mine
Stands firm, firm still shall stay!
Ask Satan! for I decline
To tell what I saw, in fine!
Yet here in the flesh you come,
Your same self, form and face,
In the eyes, mirth still at home!
On the lips, that commonplace
Perfection of honest grace!
Yet your errand is, needs must be,
To palliate, well, explain,
Expurgate in some degree
Your soul of its ugly stain.
Oh, you, the good in grain,
How was it your white took tinge?
A mere dream, never object!
Sleep leaves a door on hinge
Whence soul, ere our flesh suspect,
Is off and away: detect
Her vagaries when loose, who can!
Be she pranksome, be she prude,
Disguise with the day began:
With the night, ah, what ensued
From draughts of a drink hell-brewed?
Then She: What a queer wild dream!
And perhaps the best fun is,
Myself had its fellow, I seem
Scarce awake from yet. Twas this,
Shall I tell you? First, a kiss!
For the fault was just your own,
Tis myself expect apology:
You warned me to let alone
(Since our studies were mere philology)
That ticklish (you said) Anthology.
So I dreamed that I passed exam
Till a question posed me sore:
Who translated this epigram
By an author we best ignore?
And I answered, Hannah More!