“Yet, my little sportive friend, Little is’t to such an end That I should praise thy rareness! Other dogs may be thy peers, Haply in these drooping ears, And in this glossy fairness.
“But of _thee_ it shall be said, This dog watched beside a bed Day and night unweary;— Watched within a curtained room, Where no sunbeam broke the gloom, Round the sick and weary.
“Roses, gathered for a vase, In that chamber died apace, Beam and breeze resigning— This dog only waited on, Knowing that when light is gone, Love remains for shining.
“Other dogs in thymy dew Tracked the hares, and followed through Sunny moor or meadow— This dog only crept and crept Next a languid cheek that slept, Sharing in the shadow.
“Other dogs of loyal cheer Bounded at the whistle clear, Up the woodside hieing— This dog only watched in reach Of a faintly uttered speech, Or a louder sighing.
“And if one or two quick tears Dropt upon his glossy ears, Or a sigh came double,— Up he sprang in eager haste, Fawning, fondling, breathing fast, In a tender trouble.
“And this dog was satisfied If a pale thin hand would glide Down his dewlaps sloping— Which he pushed his nose within, After—platforming his chin On the palm left open.”
It was during those six or seven years of seclusion and study that she composed or completed the most striking of those poems, published in two volumes in 1844, which first brought her into notice as a poetess of genius. “Poetry,” said the authoress in her preface, “has been as serious a thing to me as life itself, and life has been a very serious thing. I never mistook pleasure for the final cause of poetry, nor leisure for the hour of the poet. I have done my work, so far, as work, not as mere hand and head work apart from the personal being, but as the completest expression of that being to which I could attain; and as work I offer it to the public, _feeling its shortcomings more deeply than any of my readers, because measured from the height of my aspiration_, but feeling also that the reverence and sincerity with which the work was done should give it some protection with the reverent and sincere.”
In 1846, she became the wife of a kindred spirit, Robert Browning, the poet. Never were man and woman more clearly ordained for each other than Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett. They were imperfect apart; together they were rounded into one. With marriage came Mrs. Browning’s welcome restoration to health and strength. The poet-pair started for Italy, staying first at Pisa, and then settling at Florence. In that metropolis of one of the most wealthy and powerful of the Italian States, she witnessed, in 1848-49, the struggle made by the Tuscans for freedom. Mrs. Browning published her collected works in 1850. In 1851, she issued her important work, “Casa Guidi Windows,” a semi-political narrative of actual events and genuine feelings.