“Browning is dead in Venice,” ere the thrill
Of the tidings touched us, lo! our eyes beheld
Strange portent flashed upon the winter sky.
From hill to hill the jewel-splendid span
Of the light rainbow leaped, transcendent joy,
The brave bright delicate bridge, frail as a flower,
Yet firm enough to bear the feet of Hope.
—“Browning is dead,” they told us; but our thoughts
Followed along the aerial sunbuilt arch
The onward quest of that still ardent soul.