Iv
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, Most gracious singer of high poems ! where The dancers will break footing, from the care Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear To let thy music drop here unaware In folds of golden fulness at my door ? Look up and see the casement broken in, The bats and owlets builders in the roof ! My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. Hush, call no echo up in further proof Of desolation ! there 's a voice within That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof
Next 10 Poems
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Ix
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Lady's Yes, The
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Landing Of The Pilgrim Fathers, The
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Look, The
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Lord Walter's Wife
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Meaning Of The Look, The
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Minstrelsy
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Mother And Poet
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : My Heart And I
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : On A Portrait Of Wordsworth
Previous 10 Poems
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Irreparableness
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Insufficiency
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Iii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Ii
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : I
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Human Lifes Mystery
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : How Do I Love Thee?
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : House Of Clouds, The
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Grief
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning : Futurity