721. Song

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

NAY but you, who do not love her,
  Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her?
  Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
  To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
  If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition