But _his_ way of combination is to touch the last thing he describes with human love, and to throw back this atmosphere of feeling over all the pictures he has made.

The verses I quote do this.
Oh moment, one and infinite! The water slips o'er stock and stone; The West is tender, hardly bright; How grey at once is the evening grown-- One star, its chrysolite! We two stood there with never a third, But each by each, as each knew well: The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred.
Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away! How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, And life be a proof of this! There are many such miniatures of Nature in Browning's poetry.
Sometimes, however, the pictures are larger and nobler, when the natural thing described is in itself charged with power, terror or dignity.

I give one instance of this, where the fierce Italian thunderstorm is enhanced by being the messenger of God's vengeance on guilt.

It is from _Pippa Passes_.

The heaven's pillars are over-bowed with heat.