Text of the poem
The rain set early in tonight,
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 endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight’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 worshiped 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!
Comments and critical appreciation of the poem:
Porphyria's Lover written by Robert Browning in the form of monologue somewhere shows a theme of a tableau vivant (French : t -bl v -vä) visualization of sick mentality because of super-possession in love. Written in a rhyming pattern ABABB which suggests madness and high intensity in the verses of the poem; is the representation of the insane personality and peak sentiment. The lover of Prophyria though we are not too sure, really loves her and is extremely possessive of her or terribly disturbed psychologically, kills Porphyria under influence of his eccentricity. When comes Porphyria, the lover is so pale and too weak to move but later he kills her with strings of her hair. Look at the line "I am quite sure she felt no pain." He strongly believes that the act of killing is for the sake of love and there is no sin in doing it. He believes that by killing Porphyria he is not ending her life but he is making their love eternal because by killing her she will not be able to possess another man and will remain his for always. It refers to his maniacal misbalanced state and also implies a noteworthy point that love cannot be killed and it endures.
Porphyria is the name of a disease that is somewhere attached to the theme of the poem. Porphyria, no doubt loves her lover a lot as she comes to meet him in bad weather, fixes the fire for him, and shows affection however, we are not sure she did not resist the deadly violence of her lover or her blind possessive lover could not see it. As the poem is a monologue and is written from the point of view of the lover and the lover is himself an insane persona to make it hard to guess the exact facts. Some scholars even doubt the real existence of Porphyria.
But at the same time somewhere he is afraid of God in committing this act of sin and is well aware of this thing. This is clearly visible in the last line of the poem "And yet God has not said a word!" Perhaps he wants forgiveness from God and if not at least accepts the guilt of the sin he has made; though he already has debated a lot in his word for the proof of his innocence. Another poem by Robert Browning, My Last Duchess is also on a similar theme in which a wealthy nobleman kills his wife because of suspicion and jealousy. Porphyria's Lover is one of the finest studies of sick human mental state and love.
