Dramatic Lyrics, by Robert Browning



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?


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!


Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:50