ROBERT BROWNING

Master of human harmonics, where gong

And harp and violin and flute accord;

Each instrument confessing you its lord,

Within the deathless orchestra of Song.

Albeit at times your music may sound wrong

To our dulled senses, and its meaning barred

To Earth's slow understanding, never marred

Your message brave: clear, and of trumpet tongue.

Poet-revealer, who, both soon and late,

Within an age of doubt kept clean your faith,

Crying your cry of “With the world all's well!”

How shall we greet you from our low estate,

Keys in the keyboard that is life and death,

The organ whence we hear your music swell?