succeeds a rarer sort, till, by green degrees, they at last
slope to Italy, and youth, -- Italy, the woman-country,
loved by earth's male-lands. She being the trusted guide,
they stand at last in the heart of things, the heaped and dim woods
all around them, the single and slim thread of water slipping
from slab to slab, the ruined chapel perched half-way up
in the Alpine gorge, reached by the one-arched bridge
where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond, where all day long
a bird sings, and a stray sheep drinks at times. Here,
where at afternoon, or almost eve, the silence grows conscious
to that degree, one half feels it must get rid of what it knows,
they walked side by side, arm in arm, and cheek to cheek;
cross silent the crumbling bridge, pity and praise the sweet chapel,
read the dead builder's date, 'five, six, nine, recross the bridge,
take the path again -- but wait! Oh moment one and infinite! the west
is tender, with its one star, the chrysolite! the sights and sounds,
the lights and shades, make up a spell; a moment after,
and unseen hands are hanging the night around them fast,
but they know that a bar has been broken between life and life,
that they are mixed at last in spite of the mortal screen.

"The forests had done it; there they stood;
We caught for a moment the powers at play:
They had mingled us so, for once and for good,
Their work was done -- we might go or stay,
They relapsed to their ancient mood."

Browning everywhere lays great stress on those moments
of exalted feeling, when the soul has an unchecked play and is
revealed to itself. See in the section of the Introduction