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Robert Browning - Song
Work rating: Medium

I.

Nay but you, who do not love her,
  Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught—-speak truth—-above her?
  Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
  So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

	II.

Because, you spend your lives in praising;
  To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
  If earth holds aught—-speak truth—-above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
  But cannot praise, I love so much!
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