Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BROWNING AT ASOLO, by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON Poet's Biography First Line: This is the loggia browning loved Last Line: But the love of the warm heart lingers here. Subject(s): Browning, Robert (1812-1889); Poetry & Poets | ||||||||
THIS is the loggia Browning loved, High on the flank of the friendly town; These are the hills that his keen eye roved, The green like a cataract leaping down To the plain that his pen gave new renown. There to the West what a range of blue! -- The very background Titian drew To his peerless Loves! O tranquil scene! Who than thy poet fondlier knew The peaks and the shore and the lore between? See! yonder's his Venice -- the valiant Spire, Highest one of the perfect three, Guarding the others: the Palace choir, The Temple flashing with opal fire -- Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea. Yesterday he was part of it all -- Sat here, discerning cloud from snow In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-stirred row Meets in a leafy bacchanal. Listen a moment -- how oft did he! -- To the bells from Fontalto's distant tower Leading the evening in ... ah, me! Here breathes the whole soul of Italy As one rose breathes with the breath of the bower. Sighs were meant for an hour like this When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. Do you wonder the poet's heart should miss This touch of rapture in Nature's kiss And dream of Asolo ever again? "Part of it yesterday," we moan? Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. What most we love we are that alone. His body lies under the Minster stone, But the love of the warm heart lingers here. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE'S POEMS by ROBERT HASS THE NINETEENTH CENTURY AS A SONG by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 192 by LYN HEJINIAN LET ME TELL YOU WHAT A POEM BRINGS by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA JUNE JOURNALS 6/25/88 by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA FOLLOW ROZEWICZ by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA HAVING INTENDED TO MERELY PICK ON AN OIL COMPANY, THE POEM GOES AWRY by HICOK. BOB AN ENGLISH MOTHER by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON |
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