Robert Browning: Poems


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, 10

Meet for love's regal dalmatic. deg. deg.11

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!