Robert Browning,
The Inn Album — Part I
(1875)
“ Which, set a-soaring, pulls me, soft as sleep, Along life's pleasant meadow,—arm left free To lock a friend's in,—whose but yours, old boy? Arm in arm glide we over rough and smooth, While hand, to pocket held, saves cash from cards. ”
Robert Browning,
The Inn Album — Part I
(1875)
“ Inflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fain Sigh forth a satisfaction might bestir Even those tufts of tree-tops to the South I' the distance where the green dies off to grey, Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place; He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek. His fellow, the much older—either say A youngish-old man or man oldish-young— Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deep In wax, to detriment of plated ware; Above—piled, strewn—is store of playing-cards, Counters and all that's proper for a game. ”
Robert Browning,
The Inn Album — Part I
(1875)
“ This inn is perched above to dominate— Except such sign of human neighborhood, (And this surmised rather than sensible) There's nothing to disturb absolute peace, The reign of English nature—which mean art And civilized existence. Wildness' self Is just the cultured triumph. Presently Deep solitude, be sure, reveals a Place That knows the right way to defend itself: Silence hems round a burning spot of life. Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood, And where a village broods, an inn should boast— Close and convenient: here you have them both. ”
