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I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
Fair tree! for thy delightful shade
’Tis just that some return be made;
Sure some return is due from me
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
O quam te memorem virgo...
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair —
Lean on a garden urn —
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf’s hands
Escape me?
Never —
Beloved!
Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Love in Fantastic Triumph sat,
Whilst Bleeding Hearts around him flowed,
For whom Fresh pains he did Create,
