Poems of Robert Browning

Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. My Star.<br><br>All that I know<br>Of a certain star<br>Is, it can throw<br>(Like the angled spar)<br>Now a dart of red,<br>Now a dart of blue;<br>Till my friends have said<br>They would fain see, too,<br>My star that dartles the red and the blue!<br>Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:<br>They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.<br>What matter to me if their star is a world?<br>Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.<br><br>A Face.<br><br>If one could have that little head of hers<br>Painted upon a background of pale gold,<br>Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!<br>No shade encroaching on the matchless mold<br>Of those two lips, which should be opening soft<br>In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,<br>For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft<br>Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's<br>Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss<br>And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.<br><br>Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround.<br>How it should waver, on the pale gold ground,<br>Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!<br>I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts