Robert Browning




by Robert Browning


This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to, --
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!


This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on --
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!


Men And Women
Copyright 1863
Boston: Ticknor And Fields
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