Men and Women


Robert Browning

THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,
    Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprang 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!

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