That is a fine, true, and piteous sketch.
But Sordello, who is the man of possible genius, is not much better off.
There has been one outbreak into reality at Palma's _Court of Love_.
Every one, afterwards, urges him to sing.

The critics gather round him.
He makes poems, he becomes the accepted poet of Northern Italy.

But he cannot give continuous delight to the world.

His poems are not like his song before Palma.

They have no true passion, being woven like a spider's web out of his own inside.