Overhead  the  tree-tops  meet,

Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's  feet ;

There  was  nought  above  me,  nought  below,

My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  know  :

For,  what  are  the  voices  of  birds

— Aye,  and  of  beasts, — but  words,  our  words.
Only  so  much  more  sweet  ?

The  knowledge  of  that  with  my  life  begun.
But  I  had  so  near  made  out  the  sun,

And  counted  your  stars,  the  seven  and  one.
Like  the  fingers  of  my  hand  :

Nay,  I  could  all  but  understand

Wherefore  through  heaven  the  white  moon  ranges  ;

And  just  when  out  of  her  soft  fifty  changes

No  unfamiliar  face  might  overlook  me —

Suddenly  God  took  me.
Robert  Browning.
ROBERT  BROWNING.  257


THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL.
Morning,  evening,  noon,  and  night,
"  Praise  God  ! "  sang  Theocrite.
Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned,
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned..
Hard  he  laboured,  long  and  well ;
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell.
But  ever,  at  each  period.
He  stopped  and  sang,  "  Praise  God  ! "

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw.
And  cheerfully  turned  to  work  anew.
Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk,  "  Well  done  ;
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son  :

As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day

Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way.
This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome."


Said  Theocrite,  "  Would  God  that  I
Might  praise  Him  that  great  way  and  die !  "


2S8  ROBERT  BROWNING.
Night  passed,  day  shone,
And  Theocrite  was  gone.
With  God  a  day  endures  alway,
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day.
