Oct. 15th, 2005

hazelnut_cafe: (Default)
Robert Browning. 1812–1889

728. Misconceptions

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.
O, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,β€”
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrill'd in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
O, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went onβ€”
Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!

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