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: