MY STAR. ALL that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too, My star that dartles the red and the blue ! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled : They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. A FACE. IF one could have that little head of hers Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky, MY LAST DUCHESS. FERRARA. THAT 's my last Duchess painted on the wall, That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands "Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart-how shall I say?-too soon made glad, She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name In speech-(which I have not)-to make your will The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! |