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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535492" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Robert Browning</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535492" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">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.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Walter+Savage+Landor">Walter Savage Landor</a></strong></div>

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