Page:Poems - volume 1 - EBBrowning (1844).pdf/254

 Or I read there sometimes, hoarsely, some new poem of my making— Oh, your poets never read their own best verses to their worth,— For the echo, in you, breaks upon the words which you are speaking, And the chariot-wheels jar in the gate, through which you drive them forth.

After, when we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast,— She would break out, on a sudden, in a gush of woodland singing, Like a child*s emotion in a god—a naiad tired of rest.

Oh, to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is divinest— For her looks sing too—she modulates her gestures on the tune;