Today's Robert Browning's birthday. Although I was never all that big on Browning, he's inextricably wedged in my pile of English major knowledge. For one thing, I think every poetry survey touches on "
My Last Duchess" or one of his other character/narrator poems. I can easily see why -- their conceit of speaking in the first-person is conveniently accessible to rudimentary explication. For another, there's 
"Porphyria's Lover," one of those poems with a somewhat sensational interpretation to be teased out an decoded; any suggestion of necrophilia, in a "serious" poem, is understandably appealing to adolescent sensibilities. 
As I read more of his work later in my academic years, I found that I preferred some of the poems that have no elaborate conceits or literary references. Simpler stuff like 
Now!
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| |  | Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before,
 All to come after it, -- so you ignore,
 So you make perfect the present, condense,
 In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment,
 Thought and feeling and soul and sense,
 Merged in a moment which gives me at last
 You around me for once, you beneath me, above me --
 Me, sure that, despite of time future, time past,
 This tick of life-time's one moment you love me!
 How long such suspension may linger? Ah, Sweet,
 The moment eternal -- just that and no more --
 When ecstasy's utmost we clutch at the core,
 While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut, and lips meet!
 
 
 
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