'And after, for pastime, If June be refulgent With flowers in completeness, All petals, no prickles, Delicious as trickles Of wine poured at mass-time, And choose One indulgent To redness and sweetness; Or if with experience of man and of spider, She use my June lightning, the strong insect-ridder To stop the fresh spinning,--why June will consider.' He comes up gasping, and more than ever persuaded that Browning's poetry is a mass of inconglomerate nonsense, which nobody understands--least of all members of the Browning Society. We need be at no pains to find a meaning for everything Mr. Browning has written. But when all is said and done--when these few freaks of a crowded brain are thrown overboard to the sharks of verbal criticism who feed on such things--Mr. Browning and his great poetical achievement remain behind to be dealt with and accounted for. We do not get rid of the Laureate by quoting: 'O darling room, my heart's delight, Dear room, the apple of my sight, With thy two couches soft and white There is no room so exquisite-- No little room so warm and bright Wherein to read, wherein to write;' or of Wordsworth by quoting: 'At this, my boy hung down his head: He blushed with shame, nor made reply, And five times to the child I said, "Why, Edward? tell me why?"'-- or of Keats by remembering that he once addressed a young lady as follows: 'O come, Georgiana! the rose is full blown, The riches of Flora are lavishly strown: The air is all softness and crystal the streams, The west is resplendently clothed in beams.' The strength of a rope may be but the strength of its weakest part; but poets are to be judged in their happiest hours, and in their greatest works.