Robert Browning


        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.
            O, 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,
            Thrill'd in a minute erratic,
        Ere the true bosom she bent on,
            Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
            O, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—
Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!