 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
THE TWELFTH OF DECEMBER
On this day Browning died?Say, rather: On the tide
That throbs against those glorious palace walls;
That rises—pauses—falls
With melody and myriad-tinted gleams;
On that enchanted tide,
Half real, and half poured from lovely dreams,
A soul of Beauty,—a white, rhythmic flame,—
Past singing forth into the Eternal Beauty whence it came.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |