Robert Browning

AND SO you found that poor room dull,
    Dark, hardly to your taste, my dear?
Its features seemed unbeautiful:
    But this I know—’twas there, not here,
You plighted troth to me, the word
Which—ask that poor room how it heard.

And this rich room obtains your praise
    Unqualified,—so bright, so fair,
So all whereat perfection stays?
    Ay, but remember—here, not there,
The other word was spoken!—Ask
This rich room how you dropped the mask!

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