This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung 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.
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!

Added: Feb 21 2003 | Viewed: 2170 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Robert Browning
Poem: Misconceptions

Poem of the Day on:
Jul 4 2007
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