The Map and the Clock

by Carol Ann Duffy

  Who are shocked if a colour not virtuous is frankly put on by a vice.’

  Her eyes blazed upon him – ‘And you! You bring us your vices so near

  That we smell them! you think in our presence a thought ’t would defame us to hear!

  ‘What reason had you, and what right, – I appeal to your soul from my life, –

  To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife.

  ‘Is the day-star too fair up above you? It burns you not. Dare you imply

  I brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high?

  ‘If a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much

  To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise! – shall I thank you for such?

  ‘Too fair? – not unless you misuse us! and surely if, once in a while,

  You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile.

  ‘A moment, – I pray your attention! – I have a poor word in my head

  I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid.

  ‘You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring.

  You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No matter! I’ve broken the thing.

  ‘You did me the honour, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then

  In the senses, – a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men

  ‘Love’s a virtue for heroes! – as white as the snow on high hills,

  And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures, and fulfils.

  ‘I love my Walter profoundly, – you, Maude, though you faltered a week,

  For the sake of … what was it? an eyebrow? or, less still, a mole on a cheek?

  ‘And since, when all’s said, you’re too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant

  About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray, and supplant,

  ‘I determined to prove to yourself that, whate’er you might dream or avow

  By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now.

  ‘There! Look me full in the face! – in the face. Understand, if you can,

  That the eyes of such women as I am are clean as the palm of a man.

  ‘Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar, –

  You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are.

  ‘You wrong me: but then I consider … there’s Walter! And so at the end,

  I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend.

  ‘Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine!

  Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine.’

  ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

  ‘Come into the garden, Maud’

  Come into the garden, Maud,

  For the black bat, night, has flown,

  Come into the garden, Maud,

  I am here at the gate alone;

  And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

  And the musk of the rose is blown.

  For a breeze of morning moves,

  And the planet of Love is on high,

  Beginning to faint in the light that she loves

  On a bed of daffodil sky,

  To faint in the light of the sun she loves,

  To faint in his light, and to die.

  All night have the roses heard

  The flute, violin, bassoon;

  All night has the casement jessamine stirred

  To the dancers dancing in tune;

  Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

  And a hush with the setting moon.

  I said to the lily, ‘There is but one

  With whom she has heart to be gay.

  When will the dancers leave her alone?

  She is weary of dance and play.’

  Now half to the setting moon are gone,

  And half to the rising day;

  Low on the sand and loud on the stone

  The last wheel echoes away.

  I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goes

  In babble and revel and wine.

  O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,

  For one that will never be thine?

  But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose,

  ‘For ever and ever, mine.’

  And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

  As the music clashed in the hall;

  And long by the garden lake I stood,

  For I heard your rivulet fall

  From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,

  Our wood, that is dearer than all;

  From the meadow your walks have left so sweet

  That whenever a March-wind sighs

  He sets the jewel-print of your feet

  In violets blue as your eyes,

  To the woody hollows in which we meet

  And the valleys of Paradise.

  The slender acacia would not shake

  One long milk-bloom on the tree;

  The white lake-blossom fell into the lake

  As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;

  But the rose was awake all night for your sake,

  Knowing your promise to me;

  The lilies and roses were all awake,

  They sighed for the dawn and thee.

  Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

  Come hither, the dances are done,

  In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

  Queen lily and rose in one;

  Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

  To the flowers, and be their sun.

  There has fallen a splendid tear

  From the passion-flower at the gate.

  She is coming, my dove, my dear;

  She is coming, my life, my fate;

  The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’

  And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late;’

  The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’

  And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’

  She is coming, my own, my sweet;

  Were it ever so airy a tread,

  My heart would hear her and beat,

  Were it earth in an earthy bed;

  My dust would hear her and beat,

  Had I lain for a century dead;

  Would start and tremble under her feet,

  And blossom in purple and red.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  The Charge of the Light Brigade

  Half a league, half a league,

  Half league onward,

  All in the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  ‘Forward, the Light Brigade!

  Charge for the guns!’ he said:

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  ‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’

  Was there a man dismay’d?

  Not tho’ the soldier knew

  Some one had blunder’d:

  Their’s not to make reply,

  Their’s not to reason why,

  Their’s but to do and die:

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  Cannon to right of them,

  Cannon to left of them,

  Cannon in front of them

  Volley’d and thunder’d;

  Storm’d at with shot and shell,

  Boldly they rode and well,

  Into the jaws of Death,

  Into the mouth of Hell

  Rode the six hundred.

  Flash’d all their sabres bare,

  Flash’d as they turn’d in air

  Sabring the gunners there,

  Charging an army, while

  All the world wonder’d:

  Plunged in the battery-smoke

  Right thro’ the line they broke;

  Cossack and Russian

  Reel’d from the sabre-stroke

  S
hatter’d and sunder’d.

  Then they rode back, but not

  Not the six hundred.

  Cannon to right of them,

  Cannon to left of them,

  Cannon behind them

  Volley’d and thunder’d;

  Storm’d at with shot and shell,

  While horse and hero fell,

  They that had fought so well

  Came thro’ the jaws of Death,

  Back from the mouth of Hell,

  All that was left of them,

  Left of six hundred.

  When can their glory fade?

  O the wild charge they made!

  All the world wonder’d.

  Honour the charge they made!

  Honour the Light Brigade,

  Noble six hundred!

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Crossing the Bar

  Sunset and evening star,

  And one clear call for me!

  And may there be no moaning of the bar,

  When I put out to sea,

  But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

  Too full for sound and foam,

  When that which drew from out the boundless deep

  Turns again home.

  Twilight and evening bell,

  And after that the dark!

  And may there be no sadness of farewell,

  When I embark;

  For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place

  The flood may bear me far,

  I hope to see my Pilot face to face

  When I have crost the bar.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  The Visionary

  Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:

  One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep,

  Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze

  That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.

  Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;

  Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;

  The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:

  I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.

  Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame;

  Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame:

  But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,

  What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

  What I love shall come like visitant of air,

  Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;

  What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray,

  Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.

  EMILY AND CHARLOTTE BRONTË

  Home-Thoughts, from Abroad

  Oh, to be in England

  Now that April’s there,

  And whoever wakes in England

  Sees, some morning, unaware,

  That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

  Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

  While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

  In England – now!

  And after April, when May follows,

  And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

  Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

  Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

  Blossoms 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 recapture

  The first fine careless rapture!

  And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

  All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

  The buttercups, the little children’s dower

  – Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

  ROBERT BROWNING

  Meeting at Night

  The grey sea and the long black land;

  And the yellow half-moon large and low;

  And the startled little waves that leap

  In fiery ringlets from their sleep,

  As I gain the cove with pushing prow,

  And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

  Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;

  Three fields to cross till a farm appears;

  A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

  And blue spurt of a lighted match,

  And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,

  Than the two hearts beating each to each!

  ROBERT BROWNING

  Porphyria’s Lover

  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 the 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!

  ROBERT BROWNING

  Dover Beach

  The sea is calm to-night.

  The tide is full, the moon lies fair

  Upon the straits; – on the French coast the light

  Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

  Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

  Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

  Only, from the long line of spray

  Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d land,

  Listen! you hear the grating roar
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  Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

  At their return, up the high strand,

  Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

  With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

  The eternal note of sadness in.

  Sophocles long ago

  Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought

  Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

  Of human misery; we

  Find also in the sound a thought,

  Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

  The Sea of Faith

  Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore

  Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl’d.

  But now I only hear

  Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

  Retreating, to the breath

  Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

  And naked shingles of the world.

  Ah, love, let us be true

  To one another! for the world, which seems

  To lie before us like a land of dreams,

  So various, so beautiful, so new,

  Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

  Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

  And we are here as on a darkling plain

  Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

  Where ignorant armies clash by night.

  MATTHEW ARNOLD

  A Christmas Carol

  In the bleak mid-winter

  Frosty wind made moan,

  Earth stood hard as iron,

  Water like a stone;

  Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

  Snow on snow,

  In the bleak mid-winter

  Long ago.