XX: To Robert Browning

A mighty sorrow gathers while the eye Is by the sunset's waning glories fed, For they recal the forms of poets dead, Who with the first of mighty ages vie, And lately veil'd by earth's horizon, shed Sad beauty from beneath it;--yet a power, Like the pale moon that to their lustrous hour Gave the meek tribute of a young ally Felt more than own'd, consoling light should shower From crystal urn that holds the precious dower Of Browning's genius--which, when breezes rend Fond clouds its lavish splendours glorify, Made free of azure fields, its course shall wend To high dominion in serenest sky.