It is the glory and good of Art That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth,—to mouths like mine, at least. - 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.

Oh never star
Was lost here but it rose afar.

One taste of the old time sets all to rights.