Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,
In some time, His good time, I shall arrive:
He guides me and the bird. In his good time."

As for the much misused 'Shaksperian' comparison, so often mistakenly
applied to Browning, there is nothing in "Paracelsus" in the least way
derivative. Because Shakspere is the greatest genius evolved from our
race, it does not follow that every lofty intellect, every great
objective poet, should be labelled "Shaksperian." But there is a certain
quality in poetic expression which we so specify, because the intense
humanity throbbing in it finds highest utterance in the greatest of our
poets: and there is at least one instance of such poignant speech in
"Paracelsus," worthy almost to be ranked with the last despairing cry of
Guido calling upon murdered Pompilia:--

"Festus, strange secrets are let out by death
Who blabs so oft the follies of this world:
And I am death's familiar, as you know.
I helped a man to die, some few weeks since,
Warped even from his go-cart to one end--
The living on princes' smiles, reflected from
A mighty herd of favourites. No mean trick
He left untried, and truly well-nigh wormed
All traces of God's finger out of him:
Then died, grown old. And just an hour before,
Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes,
He sat up suddenly, and with natural voice
Said that in spite of thick air and closed doors
God told him it was June; and he knew well
Without such telling, harebells grew in June;