Robert Browning — The Patriot

An Old Story I. It was roses, roses, all the way,         With myrtle mixed in my path like mad; The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,         The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. II. The air broke into a mist with bells,         The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—         But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered "And afterward, what else?" III. Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun         To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do, have I left undone:         And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. IV. There's nobody on the house-tops now—         Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow,         At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. V. I go in the rain, and, more than needs,         A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,         For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. VI. Thus I entered, and thus I go!         In triumphs, people have dropped down dead, "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe         Me? "—God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.