ROBERT BROWNING.

There is a vision in the heart of each Of justice, mercy, wisdom, tenderness To wrong and pain, and knowledge of its cure: And these embodied in a woman's form That best transmits them, pure as first received, From God above her, to mankind below.

This woman … … Being true, devoted, constant—she Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain And easy commonplace of character.

… The good and tender heart, Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy, How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind, How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free As light where friends are—how imbued with lore The world most prizes, yet the simplest. Herself creates The want she means to satisfy.

Truly, the woman's way High to lift heart up.

And Michal's face Still wears that quiet and peculiar light Like the dim circlet floating 'round a pearl. And yet her calm sweet countenance, Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing Alone … bird-like, Not dreaming you were near.—Her carols dropt In flakes through that old leafy bower.

… Such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,— On her neck the small face buoyant like a bell-flower on its bed.

There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest; And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest; And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble; Then her voice's music … call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!

How twinks thine eye, my Love, Blue as yon star-beam.

That flower-like love of hers; She was true—she only of them all! True to her eyes, … those glorious eyes. With truth and purity go other gifts. All gifts come clustering to that.

Good as beautiful is she, With gifts that match her goodness, no faint flaw I' the white;—she were the pearl you think you saw.

Since beneath my roof Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof I went forth every day, and all day long Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe Of laboring flesh and blood—"She loves me so!"

It is conspicuous in a woman's nature Before its view to take a grace for granted: Too trustful,—on her boundary, usurpature Is swftly made; But swftly, too, decayed, The glory perishes by woman vaunted.

That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers; And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers! Eyes and mouth too, All the face composed of flowers…. … The sweet face … Be its beauty Its sole duty!

Women hate a debt as Men a gift.

A pretty woman's worth some pains to see, Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown Complete the forehead pale and tresses pure.

Sure, 'tis no woman's part to long for battle; Who conquers mildly God from afar benignantly regardeth.

Man's best and woman's worse Amount so nearly to the same thing.

Nature's law … Given the peerless woman, certainly Somewhere shall be the peerless man to match.

Show me where's the woman won without The help of one lie which she believes— That—never mind how things have come to pass, And let who loves have loved a thousand times— All the same he now loves her only, loves Her ever….

Girl with sparkling eyes…. What an angelic mystery you are— You have a full fresh joyous sense of life That finds you out life's fit food everywhere; By joyance you inspire joy.

Now makes twice That I have seen her, walked and talked With the poor pretty thoughtful thing, Whose worth I weigh; she tries to sing: Draws, hopes in time the eye grows nice; Reads verse and thinks she understands; Loves all, at any rate, that's great, Good, beautiful….

Wave my lady dear a last farewell, Lamenting who to one and all of us Domestics was a mother, myriad harms She used to ward away from every one, And mollify her husband's ireful mood.

Men? say you have the power To make them yours, rule men, throughout life's little hour, According to the phrase: what follows? Men, you make, By ruling them, your own; each man for his own sake Accepts you as his guide, avails him of what worth He apprehends in you to sublimate his earth With fire; content, if so you convey him through night, That you shall play the sun, and he, the satellite, Pilfer your light and heat and virtue, starry pelf, While, caught up by your course, he turns upon himself.

Any sort of woman may bestow Her atom on the star, or clod she counts for such,— Each little making less bigger by just that much. Women grow you, while men depend on you at best.

Woman, and will you cast For a word, quite off at last Me your own, your You,— Love, if you knew the light That your soul casts in my sight, How I look to you For the pure and true, And the beauteous and the right,— Bear with a moment's spite When a mere mote threats the white!

Love, you did give all I asked, I think— More than I merit, yes, by many times. And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow, And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare— Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged, "God and the glory! never care for gain; The present by the future, what is that? Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" I might have done it for you. So it seems; Perhaps not. All is as God overrules.

All women love great men If young or old; it is in all the tales; Young beauties love old poets who can love— Who was a queen and loved a poet once Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that!

For women There is no good of life but love—but love! What else looks good, is some shade flung from love; Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me. Never you cheat yourself one instant! Love, Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest!

Oh, the beautiful girl … … Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen Of a soul that is meant … To just see earth, and hardly be seen, And blossom in heaven instead. Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair? One grace that grew to its full … … She had her great gold hair.

Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, Freshness and fragrance—floods of it, too! Gold, did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross!

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. 'Twas 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,—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush at least … … Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling?