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Poem by Robert Browning
I. Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star! II. My star, God's glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of his which leads you Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless he needs you, just saves your light to spend? III. His clenched hand shall unclose at last, I know, and let out all the beauty: My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages' duty, Their present for this past. IV. That day, the earth's feast-master's brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising; ``Others give best at first, but thou ``Forever set'st our table praising, ``Keep'st the good wine till now!'' V. Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder: I'll say---a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land. VI. Who has not heard how Tyrian shells Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles, And coloured like Astarte's eyes Raw silk the merchant sells? VII. And each bystander of them all Could criticize, and quote tradition How depths of blue sublimed some pall ---To get which, pricked a king's ambition Worth sceptre, crown and ball. VIII. Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh, The sea has only just o'erwhispered! Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh, As if they still the water's lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. IX. Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house, That, when gold-robed he took the throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone X. Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb, What time, with ardours manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold. XI. Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof! Till cunning come to pound and squeeze And clarify,---refine to proof The liquor filtered by degrees, While the world stands aloof. XII. And there's the extract, flasked and fine, And priced and saleable at last! And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine To paint the future from the past, Put blue into their line. XIII. Hobbs hints blue,---Straight he turtle eats: Nobbs prints blue,---claret crowns his cup: Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,--- Both gorge. Who fished the murex up? What porridge had John Keats?
Robert Browning's other poems:
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