wrong way, to its triumph or undoing."

That was what she had felt--the queen of women! A coquette, if they
will, for others, but not for him; and, though cruel to him also in the
event, not because she had not recognised him. She _had_ recognised him,
and more--she had recognised the great truth, had deeply felt that the
soul "stops here" for but one end, the true end, sole and single: "this
love-way."

If the soul miss that way, it goes wrong. There may be better ends,
there may even be deeper blisses, but that is the essential--that is the
significant thing in life.

But they need not smile at his fatuity! He sees that she "knew," but he
can see the issue also.

"Oh, observe! of course, next moment, the world's honours, in
derision,
Trampled out the light for ever. Never fear but there's provision
Of the devil's to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in
rapture" . . .

_That_ must be reckoned with; but all it does to those who "catch God's
secret" is simply to make them prize their capture so much the more:

"Such am I: the secret's mine now! She has lost me, I have gained
her;"

--for though she has cast him off, he has grasped her soul, and will
retain it. He has prevailed, and all the rest of his life shall prove
him the victorious one--the one who has two souls to work with! He will
prove all that such a pair can accomplish; and then death can come
quickly: "this world's use will have been ended." She also knew this,
but would not follow it to its issue. Thus she lost him--but he gained
her, and that shall do as well.

+ + + + +

No loving "in vain" there! But this poem is the high-water mark of
unsuccessful love exultant. Browning was too true a humanist to keep us
always on so shining a peak; he knew that there are lower levels, where
the wounded wings must rest--that mood, for instance, of wistful
looking-back to things undreamed-of and now gone, yet once experienced:

"This is a spray the bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to--
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on" . . .

--and in a stanza far less lovely than that of the bird, he shows forth
the analogy. The