This is a spray the Bird clung to,
     Making it blossom with pleasure,
   Ere the high tree-top she sprang to,
     Fit for her nest and her treasure.
     Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,—-
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
   This is a heart the Queen leant on,
     Thrilled in a minute erratic,
   Ere the true bosom she bent on,
     Meet for love’s regal dalmatic.
     Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on—-
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!
* 1  A vestment used by ecclesiastics, and formerly
*    by senators and persons of high rank.
Other works by Robert Browning...