Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/149

 The minstrel's harp is on his bier; What doth the minstrel's orphan here? The loving moulders in the clay; The loved,—she keepeth holyday!

'Tis well! I would not doom thy years Of golden prime, to only tears. Fair girl! 'twere better that thine eyes Should find a joy in summer skies,

As if their sun were on thy fate. Be happy; strive not to be great; And go not, from thy kind apart, With lofty soul and stricken heart.

Think not too deeply: shallow thought, Like open rills, is ever sought By light and flowers; while fountains deep Amid the rocks and shadows sleep.