by Robert Browning
This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprang to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,---
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.<*1>
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on---
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!
* 1 A vestment used by ecclesiastics, and formerly
* by senators and persons of high rank.