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!
|About the poet|
|By the same poet|
|My Last Duchess|
|The Lost Leader|
|The Pied Piper of Hamelin|
|Home Thoughts, from Abroad|
|Home Thoughts, from the Sea|
|How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix|
|Song from 'Paracelsus'|
|Thus the Mayne glideth|
|You'll love Me yet|
|Earl Mertoun's Song|
|In a Gondola|
|Meeting at Night|
|Parting at Morning|
|The Lost Mistress|
|The Last Ride together|
|Robert Browning at amazon.co.uk|