Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/817

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath licence from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless ! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.

183.

MIND me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, The greenest grasses Nature laid, To sanctify her right.

I call'd the place my wilderness, For no one enter'd there but I. The sheep look'd in, the grass to espy, And pass'd it ne'ertheless.