for every now and again, after having read late, or written long,
he would steal quietly from the house, and walk till the morning twilight
graded to the pearl and amber of the new day.

As in childhood the glow of distant London had affected him to a pleasure
that was not without pain, perhaps to a pain rather that was a fine delirium,
so in his early manhood the neighbourhood of the huge city, felt in those
midnight walks of his, and apprehended more by the transmutive shudder
of reflected glare thrown fadingly upward against the stars,
than by any more direct vision or even far-borne indeterminate hum,
dominated his imagination. At that distance, in those circumstances,
humanity became more human. And with the thought, the consciousness
of this imperative kinship, arose the vague desire, the high resolve
to be no curious dilettante in novel literary experiments, but to compel
an interpretative understanding of this complex human environment.

Those who knew the poet intimately are aware of the loving regard
he always had for those nocturnal experiences: but perhaps few recognise
how much we owe to the subtle influences of that congenial isolation
he was wont to enjoy on fortunate occasions.

It is not my intention -- it would, obviously, be a futile one,
if entertained -- to attempt an analysis or elaborate criticism
of the many poems, long and short, produced by Robert Browning.
Not one volume, but several, of this size, would have to be allotted
to the adequate performance of that end. Moreover,
if readers are unable or unwilling to be their own expositors,
there are several trustworthy hand-books which are easily procurable.
Some one, I believe, has even, with unselfish consideration
for the weaker brethren, turned "Sordello" into prose -- a superfluous task,