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A Pretty Woman

Written by: Robert Browning | Biography
 | Quotes (91) |
 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 you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

III

You like us for a glance, you know— 
For a word's sake,
Or a sword's sake,
All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.
IV And in turn we make you ours, we say— You and youth too, Eyes and mouth too, All the face composed of flowers, we say.
V All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet— Sing and say for, Watch and pray for, Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet.
VI But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet, Though we prayed you, Paid you, brayed you In a mortar—for you could not, Sweet.
VII So, we leave the sweet face fondly there— Be its beauty Its sole duty! Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there! VIII And while the face lies quiet there, Who shall wonder That I ponder A conclusion? I will try it there.
IX As,—why must one, for the love forgone, Scout mere liking? Thunder-striking Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone! X Why with beauty, needs there money be— Love with liking? Crush the fly-king In his gauze, because no honey bee? XI May not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there 'Twould undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet? XII Is the creature too imperfect, say? Would you mend it And so end it? Since not all addition perfects aye! XIII Or is it of its kind, perhaps, Just perfection— Whence, rejection Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps? XIV Shall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder And so hinder Sparks from kindling all the place at once? XV Or else kiss away one's soul on her? Your love-fancies!— A sick man sees Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her! XVI Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,— Plucks a mould-flower For his gold flower, Uses fine things that efface the rose.
XVII Rosy rubies make its cup more rose, Precious metals Ape the petals,— Last, some old king locks it up, morose! XVIII Then, how grace a rose? I know a way! Leave it rather.
Must you gather? Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!



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