Red Cotton Night-Cap Country; Or Turf and Towers by Robert Browning (Paperback)

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1873. Excerpt: ... I. And So, here happily we meet, fair friend Again once more, as if the years rolled back, And this our meeting-place were just that Rome Out in the champaign, say, o'er-rioted By verdure, ravage, and gay winds that war Against strong sunshine settled to his sleep; Or on the Paris Boulevard, might it prove, You and I came together saunteringly, Bound for some shop-front in the Place Vendome--Gold-smithy and Golconda mine, that makes "The Firm-Miranda" blazed about the world--Or, what if it were London, where my toe Trespassed upon your flounce?" Small blame," you smile, Seeing the Stair-case Party in the Square Was Small and Early, and you broke no rib. Even as we met where we have met so oft, Now meet we on this unpretending beach Below the little village: little, ay But pleasant, may my gratitude subjoin? Meek, hitherto un-Murrayed bathing-place, Best loved of sea-coast-nook-full Normandy That, just behind you, is mine own hired house: With right of path-way through the field in front, No prejudice to all its growth unsheaved Of emerald luzern bursting into blue. Be sure I keep the path that hugs the wall, Of mornings, as I pad from door to gate Yon yellow--what if not wild-mustard flower?--Of that, my naked sole makes lawful prize, Bruising the acrid aromatics' out, Till, what they preface, good salt savors sting From, first, the sifted sands, then sands in slab, Smooth save for pipy wreath-work of the worm: (Granite and mussel-shell are ground alike To glittering paste, --the live worm troubles yet.) Then, dry and moist, the varech limit-line, Burnt cinder-black, with brown uncrumpled swathe Of berried softness, sea-swoln thrice its size; And, lo, the wave protrudes a lip at last, And flecks my foot with froth, nor tempts in vain. Such is Saint-Ram...