Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/151

 Forget! for, so, 'twill move thee not, Or lightly move; to be forgot! Be streams thy music; hills, thy mirth; Thy chiefest light, the household hearth.

So, when grief plays her natural part, And visiteth thy quiet heart; Shall all the clouds of grief be seen To show a sky of hope between.

So, when thy beauty senseless lies, No sculptured urn shall o'er thee rise; But gentle eyes shall weep at will, Such tears as hearts like thine distil.