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ROBERT BROWNING.
II.
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music?So!
Break the string; fold music's wing:
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!
III.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion—heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!
Lose who may—I still can say,
Those who win heaven, blest are they!
12.
In a Year.
I.
While I live,
Need I hope to see his face
As before.
Once his love grown chill,
Mine may strive:
Bitterly we re-embrace,
Single still.
II.
Something done,
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