Page:Poems - volume 1 - EBBrowning (1844).pdf/259

 As I loved pure inspirations—loved the graces, loved the virtues,— In a Love content with writing his own name, on desert sands.

Or at least I thought so purely!—thought, no idiot Hope was raising Any crown to crown Love's silence—silent Love that sate alone— Out, alas! the stag is like me—he, that tries to go on grazing With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan.

It was thus I reeled! I told you that her hand had many suitors— But she rose above them, smiling down, as Venus down the waves— And with such a gracious coldness, that they could not press their futures On that present of her courtesy, which yieldingly enslaves.