Page:Poems - volume 1 - EBBrowning (1844).pdf/239

 I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement, As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things. Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my abasement, In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings!

Many vassals bow before her, as her chariot sweeps their door-ways; She hath blest their little children,—as a priest or queen were she! Oh, too tender or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was, For I thought it was the same smile, which she used, to smile on me.

She has members in the commons, she has lovers in the palace— And of all the fair court- ladies, few have jewels half as fine: