He himself writes in one of his quaint and poetic phrases that he had come to love these long country retreats, "another term of delightful weeks, each tipped with a sweet starry Sunday at the little church." For the first time, and in the last two or three years, he was really growing old.

On one point he maintained always a tranquil and unvarying decision.

The pessimistic school of poetry was growing up all round him; the decadents, with their belief that art was only a counting of the autumn leaves, were approaching more and more towards their tired triumph and their tasteless popularity.

But Browning would not for one instant take the scorn of them out of his voice.

"Death, death, it is this harping on death that I despise so much.