Elizabeth Barrett Browning ( 6 of 96 )
God's prophets of the Beautiful,
These Poets were.
God's prophets of the Beautiful,
These Poets were.
And that dismal cry rose slowly
And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit's melancholy
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And that dismal cry rose slowly
And sank slowly through the air,
Full of spirit's melancholy
And eternity's despair!
And they heart the words it said--
Pan is dead! great Pan is dead!
Pan, Pan is dead!
He likes the poor things of the world the best,
I would not, therefore, if I could be rich.
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He likes the poor things of the world the best,
I would not, therefore, if I could be rich.
It pleases him t stoop for buttercups.
Sleep on, Baby, on the floor,
Tired of all the playing,
Sleep with smile the sweeter for
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Sleep on, Baby, on the floor,
Tired of all the playing,
Sleep with smile the sweeter for
That you dropped away in!
On your curls' full roundness stand
Golden lights serenely--
One cheek, pushed out by the hand,
Folds the dimple inly.
"Yes," I answered you last night;
"No," this morning, sir, I say:
Colors seen by candle-light
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"Yes," I answered you last night;
"No," this morning, sir, I say:
Colors seen by candle-light
Will not look the same by day.
O brave poets, keep back nothing;
Nor mix falsehood with the whole!
Look up Godward! speak the read more
O brave poets, keep back nothing;
Nor mix falsehood with the whole!
Look up Godward! speak the truth in
Worthy song from earnest soul!
Hold, in high poetic duty,
Truest Truth the fairest Beauty.
