IV
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems ! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watg up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this houses latch too poor
For hand of thine ? and st thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door ?
Look up ahe casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof !
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation ! there s a voice within
That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
(ò﹏ò)
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