SUCH a starved bank of moss
Till, that May morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!
II.
SKY—what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
Splendid, a star!
III.
WORLD—how it walled about
Life with disgrace
Till God’s own smile came out:
That was thy face.
Robert Browning.
PORPHYRIA’S LOVER.
THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake;
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake.
I listened with heart fit to break,
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth, white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread o’er all her yellow hair,—