Robert Browning

Why comes temptation, but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?

That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture.

Why stay we on the earth except to grow?

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

All service ranks the same with God,- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new!

They are perfect; how else?-they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?-we have time in store.

God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.

Into the street the piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while. And the piper advanced And the children followed.

Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!