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Robert Browning - The PatriotRobert Browning - The Patriot
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AN OLD STORY. I. 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. II. 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?`` III. Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun  To give it my loving friends to keep! Nought man could do, have I left undone:  And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. IV. 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. V. 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. VI. 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.
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