Dramatic Lyrics, by Robert Browning

Song.

I.

Nay but you, who do not love her,

Is she not pure gold, my mistress?

Holds earth aught — speak truth — above her?

Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,

And this last fairest tress of all,

So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

II.

Because, you spend your lives in praising;

To praise, you search the wide world over:

Then why not witness, calmly gazing,

If earth holds aught — speak truth — above her?

Above this tress, and this, I touch

But cannot praise, I love so much!

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Last updated Wednesday, March 12, 2014 at 13:32