Robert Browning

Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.

The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.

When the fight begins within himself, A man 's worth something.

So free we seem, so fettered fast we are.

What a thing friendship is - World without end.

It is the glory and good of Art That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, - to mouths like mine, at least.

So may a glory from defect arise.

How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach.