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Love In A Life Analysis



Author: poem of Robert Browning Type: poem Views: 85

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I



Room after room,

I hunt the house through

We inhabit together.

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her,

Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her

Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume!

As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,—

Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.



II



Yet the day wears,

And door succeeds door;

I try the fresh fortune—

Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.

Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.

Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?

But 'tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,

Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!






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||| Analysis | Critique | Overview Below |||

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This is a lovely post. It kind of jives with thnigs that have been on my mind lately; how what we say isn't always understood how we mean it, or the fact that language sometimes fails us altogether (there's no way to define a color besides repeating its name again and again, unless you want to get into wavelengths). In spite of these technical failures, though, language still connects us and can still spark the synapses that mark out paths between our minds. So even though we write the words we think won't ever be read or understood or loved by anyone but ourselves, we keep writing them because there's always that hope, that possibility of connection. x x

| Posted on 2013-11-16 | by a guest


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WOW! Charlotte you did great and I think the drum was a great incitement becsuae it was loud but I could still hear you I think you and your group worked well as a team. I think you did splendid.

| Posted on 2013-11-15 | by a guest


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you liked… OhHeart of my heart, why must I search for everFor the one that is misisng, theninety and ninth lost lamb where have I misplaced you?What was the word I could have said that could have stoppedWhat happened ? A word misunderstood? An undelivereLetter? The e-mail left unopened, that containedNo more than neighborhood gossipBut let you know you were always in my mind…Too late, I turn too late and you have vanishedWhat was left they packed and shippedAcross the country. Not you, it could not be—Not you – an empty shell I still embrace, kissEach chilled finger – no, not you, not youBeneath the ground, beneath the skyNot you, not you forever. x x

| Posted on 2013-11-13 | by a guest


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Chocolate kisses. Lovely, daecdent smooth chocolate kisses. I am a slave to you. You sit in my closet, hiding. No one knows you're there. Except me. You were Leftover from a meeting, and I couldn't just leave you behind. I meant to take you to work with me. But I couldn't give you up.You're sitting in a tupperware container, in your plain Jane Hersheyness, so much better than Godiva could ever pretend to be. Dressed in just a silver foil wrapper, you play coy. There are times when I'm impatient to unwrap you, and I want you undressed and ready. Your brother Hershey Bar doesn't play hard to get. He's dangerous, because I can just strip him naked in a flash. But before I know it, he's gone, and I'm left standing there, wanting more, silently cursing him under my breath, wondering why I let myself be seduced by him. I adore you in your little silver wrapper, because you soothe me in small doses. Ones that I can handle and have no regrets over later. It would be better, perhaps, if you were sitting in the candy bowl, so that anyone could have you. But you are my little secret for now. I don't want you to be found by anyone else. You'll be gone too fast as it is.

| Posted on 2013-11-11 | by a guest


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One day when I was enroute to his ofcife located in what was once the carriage house behind our old house, I encountered my dad in the garden and he recited this poem. I didn't know he had it in him, stern patrician that he was. What a strange encounter. I think growing older must have hit him that particular day. This is a sad poem for me. Mom liked Robert Burns and was always reciting him ..oh what God the giftee gee us to see ourselves as others see us. The other poem she liked to recite to me was, There was a little girl, who had a little curl ,do you know that one?

| Posted on 2013-11-10 | by a guest




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