Fears And Scruples
Here's
my
case.
Of
old
I
used
to
love
him.
This
same
unseen
friend,
before
I
knew:
Dream
there
was
none
like
him,
none
above
him,--
Wake
to
hope
and
trust
my
dream
was
true.
Loved
I
not
his
letters
full
of
beauty?
Not
his
actions
famous
far
and
wide?
Absent,
he
would
know
I
vowed
him
duty,
Present,
he
would
find
me
at
his
side.
Pleasant
fancy!
for
I
had
but
letters,
Only
knew
of
actions
by
hearsay:
He
himself
was
busied
with
my
betters;
What
of
that?
My
turn
must
come
some
day.
"Some
day"
proving--no
day!
Here's
the
puzzle.
Passed
and
passed
my
turn
is.
Why
complain?
He's
so
busied!
If
I
could
but
muzzle
People's
foolish
mouths
that
give
me
pain!
"Letters?"
(hear
them!)
"You
a
judge
of
writing?
Ask
the
experts!--How
they
shake
the
head
O'er
these
characters,
your
friend's
inditing--
Call
them
forgery
from
A
to
Z
!
"Actions?
Where's
your
certain
proof"
(they
bother)
"He,
of
all
you
find
so
great
and
good,
He,
he
only,
claims
this,
that,
the
other
Action--claimed
by
men,
a
multitude?"
I
can
simply
wish
I
might
refute
you,
Wish
my
friend
would,--by
a
word,
a
wink,--
Bid
me
stop
that
foolish
mouth,--you
brute
you!
He
keeps
absent,--why,
I
cannot
think.
Never
mind!
Tho'
foolishness
may
flout
me.
One
thing's
sure
enough;
'tis
neither
frost,
No,
nor
fire,
shall
freeze
or
burn
from
out
me
Thanks
for
truth--tho'
falsehood,
gained--tho'
lost.
All
my
days,
I'll
go
the
softlier,
sadlier,
For
that
dream's
sake!
How
forget
the
thrill
Thro'
and
thro'
me
as
I
thought,
"The
gladlier
Lives
my
friend
because
I
love
him
still!"
Ah,
but
there's
a
menace
some
one
utters!
"What
and
if
your
friend
at
home
play
tricks?
Peep
at
hide-and-seek
behind
the
shutters?
Mean
your
eyes
should
pierce
thro'
solid
bricks?
'What
and
if
he,
frowning,
wake
you,
dreamy?
Lay
on
you
the
blame
that
bricks--conceal?
Say
'_At
least
I
saw
who
did
not
see
me,
Does
see
now,
and
presently
shall
feel_'?"
"Why,
that
makes
your
friend
a
monster!"
say
you;
"Had
his
house
no
window?
At
first
nod,
Would
you
not
have
hailed
him?"
Hush,
I
pray
you!
What
if
this
friend
happen
to
be--God?
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.