Men and Women. Robert Browning

      Thou wilt object—Why have I not ere this

      Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene

      Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source,

      Conferring with the frankness that befits?

      Alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech

      Perished in a tumult many years ago,

      Accused—our learning's fate—of wizardry,

      Rebellion, to the setting up a rule

      And creed prodigious as described to me.

      His death, which happened when the earthquake fell

      (Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss

      To occult learning in our lord the sage

      Who lived there in the pyramid alone)

      Was wrought by the mad people—that's their wont!

      On vain recourse, as I conjecture it,

      To his tried virtue, for miraculous help—

      How could he stop the earthquake? That's their way!

      The other imputations must be lies;

      But take one, though I loathe to give it thee,

      In mere respect for any good man's fame.

      (And after all, our patient Lazarus

      Is stark mad; should we count on what he says?

      Perhaps not: though in writing to a leech

      'Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.)

      This man so cured regards the curer, then,

      As—God forgive me! who but God himself,

      Creator and sustainer of the world,

      That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile!

      —'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived,

      Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house;

      Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know,

      And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat,

      And must have so avouched himself, in fact,

      In hearing of this very Lazarus

      Who saith—but why all this of what he saith?

      Why write of trivial matters, things of price

      Calling at every moment for remark?

      I noticed on the margin of a pool

      Blue-flowering16 borage, the Aleppo sort,

      Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange!

      Thy pardon for this long and tedious case,

      Which, now that I review it, needs must seem

      Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth!

      Nor I myself discern in what is writ

      Good cause for the peculiar interest

      And awe indeed this man has touched me with.

      Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness

      Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus:

      I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills

      Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came

      A moon made like a face with certain spots

      Multiform, manifold and menacing:

      Then a wind rose behind me. So we met

      In this old sleepy town at unaware,

      The man and I. I send thee what is writ.

      Regard it as a chance, a matter risked

      To this ambiguous Syrian—he may lose,

      Or steal, or give it thee with equal good.

      Jerusalem's repose shall make amends

      For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine;

      Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell!

      The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think?