tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England--now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge--
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!"

A more significant note is struck in "Meeting at Night" and "Parting at
Morning."

MEETING.

I.

The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

II.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice lass loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

PARTING.

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.

The following winter, when they were again at their Florentine home,
Browning wrote his "Christmas Eve and Easter Day," that remarkable
_apologia_ for Christianity, and close-reasoned presentation of the
religious thought of the time. It is, however, for this reason that it
is so widely known and admired: for it is ever easier to attract readers
by dogma than by beauty, by intellectual argument than by the seduction
of art. Coincidently, Mrs. Browning wrote the first portion of "Casa
Guidi Windows."

In the spring of 1850 husband and wife spent a short stay in Rome. I
have been told that the poem entitled 'Two in the Campagna' was as
actually personal as the already quoted "Guardian Angel." But I do not
think stress should be laid on this and kindred localisations. Exact or
not, they have no literary value. To the poet, the dramatic poet above
all, locality and actuality of experience are, so to say, merely
fortunate coigns of outlook, for the winged genius to temporally
inhabit. To th