ROBERT BROWNING
TJiere *s many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing' what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet ? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only, you express'd You hold things beautiful the best,
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much but then, Have you yourself what 's best for men?
Are you poor, sick, old ere your time
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme ?
Sing, riding 's a joy' For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that 's your Venus, whence we turn
To yonder girl that fordb the burn'
You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend?
'Greatly his opera's strains intend,
But in music we know how fashions end
I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate
�� �
