There is delight in singing, though none hear <br />Beside the singer; and there is delight <br />In praising, though the praiser sits alone <br />And see the praised far off him, far above. <br />Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, <br />Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, <br />Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale <br />No man hath walked along our roads with step <br />So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue <br />So varied in discourse. But warmer climes <br />Give brighter plumage, stronger wing; the breeze <br />Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on <br />Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where <br />The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.<br /><br />Walter Savage Landor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-robert-browning/
