ROBERT BROWNING

718. Tippa's Sohg

"""THE year's at the spring,

• And day's at the morn;

Morning 's at seven ; The hill-side 's dew-pearl'd ; The lark's on the wing; The snail 's on the thorn ; God 's in His heaven All 's right with the world !

719. Tou'll love Me yet

"V^OU'LL love me yet ! and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing : June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now : some seed

At least is sure to strike, And yield what you'll not pluck indeed,

Not love, but, may be, like.

You'll look at least on love's remains,

A grave 's one violet : Your look ? that pays a thousand pains.

What's death? You'll love me yet!

720. Torphyria* s Lover

PHE rain set early in to-night,

The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

�� �