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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506371" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Garden Francies</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I. THE FLOWER'S NAME</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here's the garden she walked across,<br> Arm in my arm, such a short while since:<br>Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss<br> Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!<br>She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,<br> As back with that murmur the wicket swung;<br>For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,<br> To feed and forget it the leaves among.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	II.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down this side ofthe gravel-walk<br> She went while her rope's edge brushed the box:<br>And here she paused in her gracious talk<br> To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.<br>Roses, ranged in valiant row,<br> I will never think that she passed you by!<br>She loves you noble roses, I know;<br> But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	III.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,<br> Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;<br>Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,<br> Its soft meandering Spanish name:<br>What a name! Was it love or praise?<br> Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?<br>I must learn Spanish, one of these days,<br> Only for that slow sweet name's sake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	IV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Roses, if I live and do well,<br> I may bring her, one of these days,<br>To fix you fast with as fine a spell,<br> Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;<br>But do not detain me now; for she lingers<br> There, like sunshine over the ground,<br>And ever I see her soft white fingers<br> Searching after the bud she found.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	V.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,<br> Stay as you are and be loved for ever!<br>Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not:<br> Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!<br>For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,<br> Twinkling the audacious leaves between,<br>Till round they turn and down they nestle---<br> Is not the dear mark still to be seen?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	VI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where I find her not, beauties vanish;<br> Whither I follow ber, beauties flee;<br>Is there no method to tell her in Spanish<br> June's twice June since she breathed it with me?<br>Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,<br> Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!<br>---Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces---<br> Roses, you are not so fair after all!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Plague take all your pedants, say I!<br> He who wrote what I hold in my hand,<br>Centuries back was so good as to die,<br> Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land;<br>This, that was a book in its time,<br> Printed on paper and bound in leather,<br>Last month in the white of a matin-prime<br> Just when the birds sang all together.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	II.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Into the garden I brought it to read,<br> And under the arbute and laurustine<br>Read it, so help me grace in my need,<br> From title-page to closing line.<br>Chapter on chapter did I count,<br> As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge;<br>Added up the mortal amount;<br> And then proceeded to my revenge.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	III.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice<br> An owl would build in, were he but sage;<br>For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis<br> In a castle of the Middle Age,<br>Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber;<br> When he'd be private, there might he spend<br>Hours alone in his lady's chamber:<br> Into this crevice I dropped our friend. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">	IV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Splash, went he, as under he ducked,<br> ---At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate:<br>Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked<br> To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate;<br>Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf,<br> Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis;<br>Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf<br> Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	V.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, this morning, betwixt the moss<br> And gum that locked our friend in limbo,<br>A spider had spun his web across,<br> And sat in the midst with arms akimbo:<br>So, I took pity, for learning's sake,<br> And, _de profundis, accentibus ltis,<br>Cantate!_ quoth I, as I got a rake;<br> And up I fished his delectable treatise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	VI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here you have it, dry in the sun,<br> With all the binding all of a blister,<br>And great blue spots where the ink has run,<br> And reddish streaks that wink and glister<br>O'er the page so beautifully yellow:<br> Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks!<br>Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow?<br> Here's one stuck in his chapter six!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	VII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How did he like it when the live creatures<br> Tickled and toused and browsed him all over,<br>And worm, slug, eft, with serious features,<br> Came in, each one, for his right of trover? <br>---When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face<br> Made of her eggs the stately deposit,<br>And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface<br> As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	VIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All that life and fun and romping,<br> All that frisking and twisting and coupling,<br>While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping<br> And clasps were cracking and covers suppling!<br>As if you bad carried sour John Knox<br> To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich,<br>Fastened him into a front-row box,<br> And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	IX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it?<br> Back to my room shall you take your sweet self.<br>Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, _sufficit!_<br> See the snug niche I have made on my shelf!<br>A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you,<br> Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay,<br>And with E. on each side, and F. right over you,<br> Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Browning">Robert Browning</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506371" data-title="Garden Francies de Robert Browning" data-description="I. THE FLOWER'S NAME

Here's the garden she walked across,
 Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
 Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
 As back with tha..."></div>
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