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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,
Looking as if she were alive; I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolph's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolph" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

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
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolph chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat"; such
stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy.
of joy. She had
A heart... how shall I say? . . . too soon
made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace- all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving

speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men - good; but thanked

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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

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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
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-wind dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow:
And ere the early bedtime came

The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without a sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines
Of Nature's geometric signs,
In starry flake, and pellicle,
All day the hoary meteor fell;
And, when the second morning shone,

N

We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below,
A universe of sky and snow!
The old familiar sights of ours

Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and

towers

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood;

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;

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
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: "Boys, a path !"
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,

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