552. Robert Browning

Walter Savage Landor (1775—1864)

  THERE is delight in singing, though none hear

  Beside the singer; and there is delight

  In praising, though the praiser sit alone

  And see the praised far off him, far above.

  Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world’s,

  Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,

  Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,

  No man hath walked along our roads with step

  So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue

  So varied in discourse. But warmer climes

  Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze

  Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on

  Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where

  The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.