A Pretty Woman
I.
That
fawn-skin-dappled
hair
of
hers,
And
the
blue
eye
Dear
and
dewy,
And
that
infantine
fresh
air
of
hers!
II.
To
think
men
cannot
take
you,
Sweet,
And
enfold
you,
Ay,
and
hold
you,
And
so
keep
you
what
they
make
you,
Sweet!
III
You
like
us
for
a
glance,
you
know—-
For
a
word's
sake
Or
a
sword's
sake,
All's
the
same,
whate'er
the
chance,
you
know.
IV.
And
in
turn
we
make
you
ours,
we
say—-
You
and
youth
too,
Eyes
and
mouth
too,
All
the
face
composed
of
flowers,
we
say.
V.
All's
our
own,
to
make
the
most
of,
Sweet—-
Sing
and
say
for,
Watch
and
pray
for,
Keep
a
secret
or
go
boast
of,
Sweet!
VI.
But
for
loving,
why,
you
would
not,
Sweet,
Though
we
prayed
you,
Paid
you,
brayed
you
in
a
mortar—-for
you
could
not,
Sweet!
VII.
So,
we
leave
the
sweet
face
fondly
there:
Be
its
beauty
Its
sole
duty!
Let
all
hope
of
grace
beyond,
lie
there!
VIII.
And
while
the
face
lies
quiet
there,
Who
shall
wonder
That
I
ponder
A
conclusion?
I
will
try
it
there.
IX.
As,—-why
must
one,
for
the
love
foregone,
Scout
mere
liking?
Thunder-striking
Earth,—-the
heaven,
we
looked
above
for,
gone!
X.
Why,
with
beauty,
needs
there
money
be,
Love
with
liking?
Crush
the
fly-king
In
his
gauze,
because
no
honey-bee?
XI.
May
not
liking
be
so
simple-sweet,
If
love
grew
there
'Twould
undo
there
All
that
breaks
the
cheek
to
dimples
sweet?
XII.
Is
the
creature
too
imperfect,
Would
you
mend
it
And
so
end
it?
Since
not
all
addition
perfects
aye!
XIII.
Or
is
it
of
its
kind,
perhaps,
Just
perfection—-
Whence,
rejection
Of
a
grace
not
to
its
mind,
perhaps?
XIV.
Shall
we
burn
up,
tread
that
face
at
once
Into
tinder,
And
so
hinder
Sparks
from
kindling
all
the
place
at
once?
XV.
Or
else
kiss
away
one's
soul
on
her?
Your
love-fancies!
—-A
sick
man
sees
Truer,
when
his
hot
eyes
roll
on
her!
XVI.
Thus
the
craftsman
thinks
to
grace
the
rose,—-
Plucks
a
mould-flower
For
his
gold
flower,
Uses
fine
things
that
efface
the
rose:
XVII.
Rosy
rubies
make
its
cup
more
rose,
Precious
metals
Ape
the
petals,—-
Last,
some
old
king
locks
it
up,
morose!
XVIII.
Then
how
grace
a
rose?
I
know
a
way!
Leave
it,
rather.
Must
you
gather?
Smell,
kiss,
wear
it—-at
last,
throw
away!
Robert Browning
Robert Browning (born May 7, 1812, London—died Dec. 12, 1889, Venice) major English poet of the Victorian age, noted for his mastery of dramatic monologue and psychological portraiture. His most noted work was The Ring and the Book (1868–69), the story of a Roman murder trial in 12 books. Through all the vicissitudes of critical reputation, however, Browning’s major contribution to the canon of children’s literature, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” has retained its popular audience. At the time of his death in 1889, he was one of the most popular poets in England.