Any nose May ravage with impunity a rose. - Robert Browning

What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed
You hold things beautiful the best,
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.
‘Tis something, nay ‘tis much: but then,
Have you yourself what’s best for men?
Are you — -poor, sick, old ere your time — -
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turned a rhyme?
Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.

The adulteress lies imprisoned, — whether in a well
With bricks above and a snake for company,
Or tied by a garter to a bed-post

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!