Love Among the Ruins by Robert Browning

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,

         Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

         Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop

         As they crop—

Was the site once of a city great and gay,

         (So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince

         Ages since

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far

         Peace or war.

Now the country does not even boast a tree,

         As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills

         From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

         Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires

         Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

         Bounding all

Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest

         Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass

         Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads

         And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,

         Stock or stone—

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

         Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame

         Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold

         Bought and sold.

Now—the single little turret that remains

         On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

         Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks

         Through the chinks—

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time

         Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced

         As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames

         Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve

         Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece

         In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey

         Melt away—

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair

         Waits me there

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul

         For the goal,

When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb

            Till I come.

But he looked upon the city, every side,

         Far and wide,

All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'

         Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then

         All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,

         Either hand

On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace

         Of my face,

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech

         Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth

         South and North,

And they built their gods a brazen pillar high

         As the sky

Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—

         Gold, of course.

O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!

         Earth's returns

For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!

         Shut them in,

With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!

         Love is best.

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say, 'Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart -- how shall I say? -- too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -- all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,  
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, -- good! but thanked
Somehow -- I know not how -- as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark' -- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
-- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!