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Best Famous Robert Browning Poems

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Written by Robert Browning |

My Last Duchess

That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.
I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus.
Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy.
She had A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least.
She thanked men—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift.
Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—which I have not—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, —E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop.
Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together.
There she stands As if alive.
Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then.
I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self as I avowed At starting, is my object.
Nay, we'll go Together down, sir.
Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Written by Robert Browning |

From ‘Paracelsus'


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, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perception—which is truth.
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh Binds it, and makes all error: and, to KNOW, Rather consists in opening out a way Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, Than in effecting entry for a light Supposed to be without.
II I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, But somehow felt and known in every shift And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss, From whom all being emanates, all power Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, Yet whom existence in its lowest form Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he: With still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever.
The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask— God joys therein! The wroth sea’s waves are edged With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, When, in the solitary waste, strange groups Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, Staring together with their eyes on flame— God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms Like chrysalids impatient for the air, The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run Along the furrows, ants make their ade; Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews His ancient rapture.
Thus He dwells in all, From life’s minute beginnings, up at last To man—the consummation of this scheme Of being, the completion of this sphere Of life: whose attributes had here and there Been scattered o’er the visible world before, Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant To be united in some wondrous whole, Imperfect qualities throughout creation, Suggesting some one creature yet to make, Some point where all those scattered rays should meet Convergent in the faculties of man.

Written by Robert Browning |

A Pretty Woman


That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!


To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!


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!

More great poems below...

Written by Robert Browning |


Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you.
Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star! II.
My star, God's glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of his which leads you Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless he needs you, just saves your light to spend? III.
His clenched hand shall unclose at last, I know, and let out all the beauty: My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages' duty, Their present for this past.
That day, the earth's feast-master's brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising; ``Others give best at first, but thou ``Forever set'st our table praising, ``Keep'st the good wine till now!'' V.
Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder: I'll say---a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land.
Who has not heard how Tyrian shells Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles, And coloured like Astarte's eyes Raw silk the merchant sells? VII.
And each bystander of them all Could criticize, and quote tradition How depths of blue sublimed some pall ---To get which, pricked a king's ambition Worth sceptre, crown and ball.
Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh, The sea has only just o'erwhispered! Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh, As if they still the water's lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh.
Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house, That, when gold-robed he took the throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone X.
Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb, What time, with ardours manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold.
Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof! Till cunning come to pound and squeeze And clarify,---refine to proof The liquor filtered by degrees, While the world stands aloof.
And there's the extract, flasked and fine, And priced and saleable at last! And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine To paint the future from the past, Put blue into their line.
Hobbs hints blue,---Straight he turtle eats: Nobbs prints blue,---claret crowns his cup: Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,--- Both gorge.
Who fished the murex up? What porridge had John Keats? * 1 The Syrian Venus.
* 2 Molluscs from which the famous Tyrian * purple dye was obtained.

Written by Robert Browning |

In Three Days

So, I shall see her in three days And just one night, but nights are short, Then two long hours, and that is morn.
See how I come, unchanged, unworn! Feel, where my life broke off from thine, How fresh the splinters keep and fine,--- Only a touch and we combine! II.
Too long, this time of year, the days! But nights, at least the nights are short.
As night shows where ger one moon is, A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, So life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her! What is worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth? III.
O loaded curls, release your store Of warmth and scent, as once before The tingling hair did, lights and darks Outbreaking into fairy sparks, When under curl and curl I pried After the warmth and scent inside, Thro' lights and darks how manifold--- The dark inspired, the light controlled As early Art embrowns the gold.
What great fear, should one say, ``Three days ``That change the world might change as well ``Your fortune; and if joy delays, ``Be happy that no worse befell!'' What small fear, if another says, ``Three days and one short night beside ``May throw no shadow on your ways; ``But years must teem with change untried, ``With chance not easily defied, ``With an end somewhere undescried.
'' No fear!---or if a fear be born This minute, it dies out in scorn.
Fear? I shall see her in three days And one night, now the nights are short, Then just two hours, and that is morn.

Written by Jorge Luis Borges |

Browning Decides To Be A Poet

 in these red labyrinths of London
I find that I have chosen
the strangest of all callings,
save that, in its way, any calling is strange.
Like the alchemist who sought the philosopher's stone in quicksilver, I shall make everyday words-- the gambler's marked cards, the common coin-- give off the magic that was their when Thor was both the god and the din, the thunderclap and the prayer.
In today's dialect I shall say, in my fashion, eternal things: I shall try to be worthy of the great echo of Byron.
This dust that I am will be invulnerable.
If a woman shares my love my verse will touch the tenth sphere of the concentric heavens; if a woman turns my love aside I will make of my sadness a music, a full river to resound through time.
I shall live by forgetting myself.
I shall be the face I glimpse and forget, I shall be Judas who takes on the divine mission of being a betrayer, I shall be Caliban in his bog, I shall be a mercenary who dies without fear and without faith, I shall be Polycrates, who looks in awe upon the seal returned by fate.
I will be the friend who hates me.
The persian will give me the nightingale, and Rome the sword.
Masks, agonies, resurrections will weave and unweave my life, and in time I shall be Robert Browning.

Written by Robert Browning |

Life In A Love

 Escape me?
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 pursue.
My life is a fault at last, I fear— It seems too much like a fate, indeed! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed— But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up to begin again,— So the chase takes up one's life, that's all.
While, look but once from your farthest bound, At me so deep in the dust and dark, No sooner the old hope drops to ground Than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark, I shape me— Ever Removed!

Written by Robert Browning |

The Guardian-Angel

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending, Another still, to quiet and retrieve.
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, ---And suddenly my head is covered o'er With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb---and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.
I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? IV.
If this was ever granted, I would rest My bead beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared? VI.
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!)---that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently,---with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach.
We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content ---My angel with me too: and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)--- VIII.
And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong--- I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song.
My love is here.
Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.

Written by Robert Browning |

Why I Am a Liberal

 "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 traced for both? If fetters, not a few, 
Of prejudice, convention, fall from me, 
These shall I bid men--each in his degree 
Also God-guided--bear, and gayly, too? 

But little do or can the best of us: 
That little is achieved through Liberty.
Who, then, dares hold, emancipated thus, His fellow shall continue bound? Not I, Who live, love, labour freely, nor discuss A brother's right to freedom.
That is "Why.

Written by Robert Browning |

A Light Woman

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 friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net.
When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just him To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim! IV.
And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead! V.
So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed.
The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face.
—You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space! VII.
For see, my friend goes shaling and white; He eyes me as the basilisk: I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.
And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her—that, he comprehends— "One should master one's passions, (love, in chief) "And be loyal to one's friends!" IX.
And she,—she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; Just a touch to try and off it came; 'Tis mine,—can I let it fall? X.
With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist.
And I,—what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess.
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own: Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone! XIII.
One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true: But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you? XIV.
Well, any how, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand!

Written by Robert Browning |

A Womans Last Word

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! III.
See the creature stalking While we speak! Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek! IV.
What so false as truth is, False to thee? Where the serpent's tooth is Shun the tree— V.
Where the apple reddens Never pry— Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
Be a god and hold me With a charm! Be a man and fold me With thine arm! VII.
Teach me, only teach, Love As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought— VIII.
Meet, if thou require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands.
That shall be to-morrow Not to-night: I must bury sorrow Out of sight: X.
—Must a little weep, Love, (Foolish me!) And so fall asleep, Love, Loved by thee.

Written by Robert Browning |


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 Of youth had passed, that speed so fast, Before we found it out at last, The world, and what it fears? II.
How much of priceless life were spent With men that every virtue decks, And women models of their sex, Society's true ornament,--- Ere we dared wander, nights like this, Thro' wind and rain, and watch the Seine, And feel the Boulevart break again To warmth and light and bliss? III.
I know! the world proscribes not love; Allows my finger to caress Your lips' contour and downiness, Provided it supply a glove.
The world's good word!---the Institute! Guizot receives Montalembert! Eh? Down the court three lampions flare: Put forward your best foot!

Written by Robert Browning |

Instans Tyrannus

Of the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man, for some cause undefined, Was least to my mind.
I struck him, he grovelled of course--- For, what was his force? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate: And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, As his lot might be worse.
``Were the object less mean, would he stand ``At the swing of my hand! ``For obscurity helps him and blots ``The hole where he squats.
'' So, I set my five wits on the stretch To inveigle the wretch.
All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw, Still he couched there perdue; I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh, Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth: Still he kept to his filth.
Had he kith now or kin, were access To his heart, did I press: Just a son or a mother to seize! No such booty as these.
Were it simply a friend to pursue 'Mid my million or two, Who could pay me in person or pelf What he owes me himself! No: I could not but smile through my chafe: For the fellow lay safe As his mates do, the midge and the nit, ---Through minuteness, to wit.
Then a humour more great took its place At the thought of his face, The droop, the low cares of the mouth, The trouble uncouth 'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain To put out of its pain.
And, ``no!'' I admonished myself, ``Is one mocked by an elf, ``Is one baffled by toad or by rat? ``The gravamen's in that! ``How the lion, who crouches to suit ``His back to my foot, ``Would admire that I stand in debate! ``But the small turns the great ``If it vexes you,---that is the thing! ``Toad or rat vex the king? ``Though I waste half my realm to unearth ``Toad or rat, 'tis well worth!'' VI.
So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man.
Round his creep-hole, with never a break Ran my fires for his sake; Over-head, did my thunder combine With my underground mine: Till I looked from my labour content To enjoy the event.
When sudden .
how think ye, the end? Did I say ``without friend''? Say rather, from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew his targe With the sun's self for visible boss, While an Arm ran across Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast Where the wretch was safe prest! Do you see? Just my vengeance complete, The man sprang to his feet, Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed! ---So, _I_ was afraid!

Written by Robert Browning |

Love Among The Ruins


Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles
 Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
 As they crop— 
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
 (So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
 Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
 Peace or war.
II Now—the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into one) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest, Twelve abreast.
III And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone— Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold.
IV Now,—the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks— Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games.
V And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey Melt away— That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come.
VI But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then, All the men! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each.
VII In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and north, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force— Gold, of course.
Oh, heart! oh, blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest.
Love is best!

Written by Robert Browning |

The Boy And the Angel

 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 fell.
But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, ``Praise God!'' Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew.
Said Blaise, the listening monk, ``Well done; ``I doubt not thou art heard, my son: ``As well as if thy voice to-day ``Were praising God, the Pope's great way.
``This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome ``Praises God from Peter's dome.
'' Said Theocrite, ``Would God that I ``Might praise him, that great way, and die!'' Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone.
With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day.
God said in heaven, ``Nor day nor night ``Now brings the voice of my delight.
'' Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth; Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well; And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite.
And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling's hue: The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay: And ever o'er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content.
(He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.
) God said, ``A praise is in mine ear; ``There is no doubt in it, no fear: ``So sing old worlds, and so ``New worlds that from my footstool go.
``Clearer loves sound other ways: ``I miss my little human praise.
'' Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.
In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery, With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite: And all his past career Came back upon him clear, Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed; And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer: And rising from the sickness drear He grew a priest, and now stood here.
To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned.
``I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell ``And set thee here; I did not well.
``Vainly I left my angel-sphere, ``Vain was thy dream of many a year.
``Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped--- ``Creation's chorus stopped! ``Go back and praise again ``The early way, while I remain.
``With that weak voice of our disdain, ``Take up creation's pausing strain.
``Back to the cell and poor employ: ``Resume the craftsman and the boy!'' Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.
One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side.