 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII, IX, X. |
| XI. |
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| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Browning |  |
54
V.—ON THE CLIFF.
I
I leaned on the turf,I looked at a rock
Left dry by the surf;
For the turf, to call it grass were to mock:
Dead to the roots, so deep was done
The work of the summer sun.
II
And the rock lay flatAs an anvil's face:
No iron like that!
Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace:
Sunshine outside, but ice at the core,
Death's altar by the lone shore.
55
III
On the turf, sprang gayWith his films of blue,
No cricket, I'll say,
But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too,
The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight,
Real fairy, with wings all right.
IV
On the rock, they scorchLike a drop of fire
From a brandished torch,
Fall two red fans of a butterfly:
No turf, no rock: in their ugly stead,
See, wonderful blue and red!
V
Is it not soWith the minds of men?
The level and low,
The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then
With such a blue and red grace, not theirs,—
Love settling unawares!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Browning | |