Robert Browning

“ Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky
(That's the pale ground you 'd see this sweet face by) ,
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. ”