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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506338" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Face</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506338" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">If one could have that little head of hers<br>Painted upon a background of pure gold,<br>Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!<br>No shade encroaching on the matchless mould<br>Of those two lips, which should be opening soft<br>In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,<br>For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft<br>Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's<br>Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss<br>And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.<br>Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,<br>How it should waver on the pale gold ground<br>Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!<br>I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts<br>Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb<br>Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:<br>But these are only massed there, I should think,<br>Waiting to see some wonder momently<br>Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky<br>(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),<br>All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye<br>Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Robert+Browning">Robert Browning</a></strong></div>

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