Robert Browning (1812–1889)

THIS 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!