Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/154

 The sweetest song that minstrels sing, Will charm not Joy to tarrying; The greenest bay that earth can grow, Will shelter not in burning woe; A thousand voices will not cheer, When one is mute that aye is dear!— Is there, alas! no reason why I have delight in minstrelsy?

I do not know! The turf is green Beneath the rain's fast-dropping sheen, Yet asks not why that deeper hue Doth all its tender leaves renew;— And I, like-minded, am content, While music to my soul is sent, To question not the reason why I have delight in minstrelsy.