Robert Browning

I TRUTH is within ourselves; it takes no rise From outward things, whate’er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fullness; and around, Wall upon wall,

I. I dream of a red-rose tree. And which of its roses three Is the dearest rose to me? II. Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its

The moth’s kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it,

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty score strong,

THUS the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth; Sleep ‘s no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate’er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not

O God, where does this tend-these struggling aims? What would I have? What is this ‘sleep’, which seems To bound all? can there be a ‘waking’ point Of crowning life? The soul would never

(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality) I Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; Ah, such

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

Karshish, the picker-up of learning’s crumbs, The not-incurious in God’s handiwork (This man’s-flesh he hath admirably made, Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, To coop up and keep down on earth a

An imaginary composer.] I. Hist, but a word, fair and soft! Forth and be judged, Master Hugues! Answer the question I’ve put you so oft: What do you mean by your mountainous fugues? See,

A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE. ROSA MUNDI; SEU, FULCITE ME FLORIBUS. A CONCEIT OF MASTER GYSBRECHT, CANON-REGULAR OF SAID JODOCUS-BY-THE-BAR, YPRES CITY. CANTUQUE, Virgilius. AND HATH OFTEN BEEN SUNG AT HOCK-TIDE AND FESTIVALES. GAVISUS ERAM, Jessides.

Man I am and man would be, Love merest man and nothing more. Bid me seem no other! Eagles boast of pinions let them soar! I may put forth angel’s plumage, once unmanned, but

Oh, to be in England Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

A Child’s Story Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my

All that I know Of a certain star, Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue, Till my friends have said They would fain

I That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers! II To think men cannot take you, Sweet, And enfold you, Ay, and hold

I. Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass;

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

I wonder how you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?

You’ll love me yet!-and I can tarry Your love’s protracted growing: June reared that bunch of flowers you carry From seeds of April’s sowing. I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is

I. Dear, had the world in its caprice Deigned to proclaim ”I know you both, ”Have recognized your plighted troth, Am sponsor for you: live in peace!” – How many precious months and years

I chanced upon a new book yesterday; I opened it, and, where my finger lay ‘Twixt page and uncut page, these words I read – Some six or seven at most – and learned

Morning, evening, noon and night, ”Praise God!; sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard he laboured, long and well; O’er his work the boy’s curls

I. The morn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say: As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch Of the villa-gate this warm March

I. That was I, you heard last night, When there rose no moon at all, Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small: Life was dead and so was

I Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; But although I give you credit, ’tis with such a heavy mind!

NO more wine? then we’ll push back chairs and talk. A final glass for me, though: cool, i’ faith! We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. It’s different, preaching in basilicas, And

I. Gr-r-r – there go, my heart’s abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God’s blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose

I. Said Abner, ”At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, ”Kiss my cheek, wish me well!” Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. And he, ”Since the King,

I Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro’ the twilight, stray or stop As they crop – Was the site

1842 I As I ride, as I ride, With a full heart for my guide, So its tide rocks my side, As I ride, as I ride, That, as I were double-eyed, He, in

I. So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?- My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me? II. My

Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,

I. Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught – speak truth – above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Armies

The rain set early in tonight, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break.

(PIANO DI SORRENTO.) Fortu, Frotu, my beloved one, Sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of

FAME. See, as the prettiest graves will do in time, Our poet’s wants the freshness of its prime; Spite of the sexton’s browsing horse, the sods Have struggled through its binding osier rods; Headstone

Escape me? Never Beloved! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other

Escape me? Never – Beloved! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the

There’s a palace in Florence, the world knows well, And a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our townsmen tell. Ages ago, a lady there, At the farthest

I. THE FLOWER’S NAME Here’s the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!

Christ God who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at

I What’s become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest, or staff and scrip, Rather than pace up and down Any longer London-town? Who’d have

I. Let’s contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, -Only sleep! II. What so wild as words are? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough!

“As certain also of your own poets have said” (Acts 17.28) Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o’erlace the sea And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps

OVER the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough

“Why?” Because all I haply can and do, All that I am now, all I hope to be, Whence comes it save from fortune setting free Body and soul the purpose to pursue, God

An Old Story I It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad. The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A

HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smear’d with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,