 | The Poetical Works of Robert Browning |  |
XXIII.
I sat up. All was still again.I breathed free: to my heart, back fled
The warmth. “But, all the world!”—I said.
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And recollected I might learn
From books, how many myriad sorts
Of fern exist, to trust reports,
Each as distinct and beautiful
As this, the very first I cull.
Think, from the first leaf to the last!
Conceive, then, earth's resources! Vast
Exhaustless beauty, endless change
Of wonder! And this foot shall range
Alps, Andes,—and this eye devour
The bee-bird and the aloe-flower?
| The Poetical Works of Robert Browning | |