ROBERT BROWNING
A shrine of rock for every one, Nor paused till in the westering sun
We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done; When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders' 'Our isles arc just at hand,' they cried,
'Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping, Our temple-gates are open'd wide,
Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms' they cried. O, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight:
Yet we call'd out 'Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide:
Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,' we cried.
��T
��727 Thus the Mayne glide th
S the Mayne glidcth Where my Love abidcth , Sleep's no softer it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whatever befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge
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