But he cared for them also, and yet more, as expressions of the artist's own "love of loving, rage of knowing, seeing, feeling" that absolute truth.

And he cared for them also and not less, without regard to anything they expressed, as simple outflows of vitality, however grotesque or capricious.

His own eye and ear continually provoked his hand to artistic experiments and activities.

During the last years in Italy his passion for modelling even threatened to divert him from poetry; and his wife playfully lamented that the "poor lost soul" produced only casts, which he broke on completion, and no more Men and Women.

And his own taste in art drew him, notoriously, to work in which the striving hand was palpable,--whether it was a triumphant _tour de force_ like Cellini's Perseus, in the Loggia--their daily banquet in the early days at Florence; or the half-articulate utterances of "the Tuscan's early art," like those "Pre-Giotto pictures" which surrounded them in the salon of Casa Guidi, "quieting" them if they were over busy, as Mrs Browning beautifully says,[32] more perhaps in her own spirit than in her husband's.
[Footnote 32: _Letters of E.B.B._, ii.