One of the greatest love stories of all time is that between Robert Brown-ing and Elizabeth Barrett. It is a beautiful expression of man’s belief in life after death.

Browning had brought his wife to Italy, hoping that the warm, sunny climate would improve her health, and so it had – so much so that he estab- lished a home for her in Florence. Here, they spent their happiest years. Here, they lived as if in a dream, thinking as one and feeling as one, planning and writing their poetry. Here, they lived a life of rich contentment . . . until now . . . now he knew the idyll was over, the dream was spent. Elizabeth was dying. Though every fibre in him cried denial, he knew the end was near.

The doctor had told him what his heart already knew. All through the long, long night, he sat by the bedside, holding her hands. Sometimes she whispered his name and he bent close to listen. Always, it was some word of hope or cheer or a gentle smile. Then she would doze again and he would watch and pray.

A little before dawn, she moved and opened her eyes. “Hold me, Beloved,” she whispered. He lifted her in his arms and sat with her near the window, holding her close. There was no need for words between them. He thought of the closing lines of one of her poems, his favourite of all her works, a poem written for him and entitled ‘How do I love thee?’ “

I love thee with the breath, smiles, and tears of all my life

– and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

He bent and kissed her cheek. It felt icy to his lips. The first warm light of the new day was just beginning to come through the window when she sighed and said: “It is beautiful!” Then, suddenly, she was gone.

He was grief-stricken by his wife’s death. For some time, he could not write but when, at last, he did, there flowed from his pen a passionate defiance of death, an exultant challenge. Fear death? Not he. He would meet death gladly, boldly, for, in the end, he would triumph. He would meet his Beloved again, clasp her in his arms – and out of the pain would come peace. He felt the release of bitter tension as he wrote – he felt strangely comforted.

Elizabeth Browning died in June 1861 and it was in the autumn of that same year that Robert Browning, out of the depths of his grief and loneliness, wrote ‘Prospice’, one of his most famous and inspiring poems. ‘Prospice’ (‘Look forward!’) – it is at once a challenge and a promise, a magnificent blend of defiance and faith. “I shall clasp thee again!” cries Browning. He is not afraid of death. He looks forward to it, for in death he and his beloved Elizabeth will be reunited.

To subscribe to Engineering News's print magazine email subscriptions@creamermedia.co.za or buy now.