CHOROS.
Wherefore to me, this fear --
Groundedly stationed here
Fronting my heart, the portent-watcher -- flits she?
Wherefore should prophet-play
The uncalled and unpaid lay,
Nor -- having spat forth fear, like bad dreams -- sits she
On the mind's throne beloved -- well-suasive Boldness?
For time, since, by a throw of all the hands,
The boat's stern-cables touched the sands,
Has past from youth to oldness, --
When under Ilion rushed the ship-borne bands.
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The Poetical Works of Robert Browning, volume 13. Robert Browning. London. Smith, Elder, and Co. 1889.
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