It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still — ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-tetootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life. Robert Browning. MY LAST DUCHESS That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolph's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good; but thanked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech your will (which I have not) to make Quite clear to such an one, and say "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, And there exceed the mark" - and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, Sir! Notice Neptune, tho', Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. Robert Browning. THE STORM, FROM "SNOW-BOUND" Unwarmed by any sunset light Crossed and recrossed the winged snow: The white drift piled the window-frame, So all night long the storm roared on: N We looked upon a world unknown, Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, The bridle-post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant splendor seemed to tell A prompt, decisive man, no breath |