The Poetry Corner

Rosny

By Robert Browning

Woe, he went galloping into the war, Clara, Clara! Let us two dream: shall he scape with a scar? Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace Making for manhood which nowise we mar: See, while I kiss it, the flush on his face, Rosny, Rosny! Light does he laugh: With your love in my soul, (Clara, Clara!) How could I other than, sound, safe, and whole, Cleave who opposed me asunder, yet stand Scatheless beside you, as, touching loves goal, Who won the race kneels, craves reward at your hand, Rosny, Rosny? Ay, but if certain who envied should see Clara, Clara. Certain who simper: The hero for me Hardly of life were so chary as miss Death, death and fame, thats loves guerdon when She Boasts, proud bereaved one, her choice fell on this Rosny, Rosny! So, go on dreaming, he lies mid a heap (Clara, Clara,) Of the slain by his hand: what is death but a sleep? Dead, with my portrait displayed on his breast: Love wrought in his undoing: No prudence could keep The love-maddened wretch from his fate. That is best, Rosny, Rosny.