by Robert Browning (1812 - 1889)

Nay but you, who do not love her
Language: English 
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?
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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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]