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.