Breaking

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Patriot - Robert Browning






The Patriot


Robert Browning (1812–1889)





IT was roses, roses, all the way,  


 
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:        


The house-roofs seemed to heave and
sway,       


 
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,   


A year ago on this very day.                 





The air broke into a mist with bells,       


 
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.     


Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise
repels—  


 
But give me your sun from yonder skies!”    


They had answered, “And afterward, what
else?”


                   


Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun    


 
To give it my loving friends to keep!    


Naught man could do, have I left undone:     


 
And you see my harvest, what I reap 


This very day, now a year is run.   


     
 


There’s nobody on the house-tops now—     


 
Just a palsied few at the windows set;


For the best of the sight is, all allow,     


 
At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet,


By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.


         


I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 


 
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;     


And I think, by the feel, my forehead
bleeds,


 
For they fling, whoever has a mind,    


Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.           


Thus I entered, and thus I go!      


 
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.    


“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe


 
Me?”—God might question; now instead,    


’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Featured post

Write an email to your friend inviting him to join a picnic

Blog Archive

Contact Form

Name

Email *

Message *