There is no humour in the thing, though there is bitter irony.

But there is humour in an earlier poem--_A Serenade at the Villa_, where, in the last verse, the bitterness of wrath and love together (a very different bitterness from that of _St.
Martin's Summer_), breaks out, and is attributed to the garden gate.

The night-watch and the singing is over; she must have heard him, but she gave no sign.

He wonders what she thought, and then, because he was only half in love, flings away-- Oh how dark your villa was, Windows fast and obdurate! How the garden grudged me grass Where I stood--the iron gate Ground its teeth to let me pass! It is impossible to notice all these studies of love, but they form, together, a book of transient phases of the passion in almost every class of society.

And they show how Browning, passing through the world, from the Quartier Latin to London drawing-rooms, was continually on the watch to catch, store up, and reproduce a crowd of motives for poetry which his memory held and his imagination shaped.
There is only one more poem, which I cannot pass by in this group of studies.