Dramatic Lyrics, by 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.¹⁹

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!