Brownings.

There were a number of books that I thought was essential to me when I packed my bag for York.

A textbook on Social Psychology (this was bought at the same place and time as Annie Proulx's Heart Songs and Other Stories which is currently with Jade. Bought in 1997 at Bras Basah) because I thought I might be interested to read about it on my own. It's a bloody hardcover. Weighs about a kilo on its own.
A guidebook to the Bed and Breakfast Lodgings in Great Britain. This was given to me by my cousin who bought it when she was there with her husband. Quite useful, if not for the contact details of the bed and breakfast places in Britain.
And four poetry books. Poems 1965 - 1975 by Seamus Heaney, Everyman's Poetry by Robert Browning, A Poet To His Beloved by W. B. Yeats and The Complete Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe.

Yeah, I am very artificial. I thought by reading poetry I can score with girls. Girls dig that kind of stuff right? Poetry? Who the fuck cares about words that rhyme (kiddy shit) and incoherent mish-mash of arcane words like thou'est, fuckerest, thee, art...

I've known about the romance between Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning for some time now. I first came across the poetry of Robert Browning in this old book - Federal Anthology of Poetry 2 selected and edited by Catherine Lim. It's a 1986 edition. I think it's still in reprint. Aunt was working at Times Publishing House then. So she would pass books used for editing to us (nieces and nephews). In the Life: Love and Joy Chapter, Catherine Lim chose How Do I love Thee by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Meeting At Night by Robert Browning amongst 6 others. But these two stuck because the former was familiar (How do I love thee, let me count the ways.) and the latter, spoke of some clandestine rendezvous, a forbidden love that in the simple pleasure of a meeting by the sea. So hushed, their beating hearts ring out louder than their voices.

Sonnet XLIII
Elizabeth Browning

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life !--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Meeting At Night
Robert Browning

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 i' 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!

I recently read this poem by Robert Browning that was not in the collection that I have. It speaks of a love that is nearly torn asunder, that is missed, finally brought together again in spring.

Never The Time And The Place
Robert Browning

Never the time and the place
And the loved one all together !
This path--how soft to pace !
This May--what magic weather !
Where is the loved one's face?
In a dream that loved one's face meets mine,
But the house is narrow, the place is bleak
Where, outside, rain and wind combine
With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak,
With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek,
With a malice that marks each word, each sign !
O enemy sly and serpentine,
Uncoil thee from the waking man !
Do I hold the Past
Thus firm and fast
Yet doubt if the Future hold I can?
This path so soft to pace shall lead
Thro' the magic of May to herself indeed !
Or narrow if needs the house must be,
Outside are the storms and strangers: we
Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she,--
I and she !

When I read poetry that's written about 200 years ago, I realise that we aren't that much different from then.