Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/150

 Feel not too warmly: lest thou be Too like Cyrene's waters free, Which burn at night, when all around In darkness and in chill is found.

Touch not the harp to win the wreath: Its tone is fame, its echo death! The wreath may like the laurel grow, Yet turns to cypress on the brow!

And, as a flame springs clear and bright, Yet leaveth ashes 'stead of light; So genius (fatal gift!) is doom'd To leave the heart it fired, consumed.

For thee, for thee, thou orphan'd one, I make an humble orison! Love all the world; and ever dream That all are true who truly seem.