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��ROBERT BROWNING
73 8 Misconceptions
is a spray the Bird clung to, Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, Fit for her nest and her treasure. O, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,- So to be singled out, built in, and sung to'
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrill'd in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic. O, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!
Home-though ts y from Abroad
OTO be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the clm-trec bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England now'
And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows' Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dcwdrops at the bent spray's edge That's the wise thrut>h j he sings each song twice over,
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