Misconceptions
By Robert Browning
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 sprays, 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 loves regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor hearts, ere the wanderer went on
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!