WOOLNER and Stephens, Collinson, Millais, And my first brother, each and every one, What portion is now theirs beneath the sun Which, even as here, in England makes to-day? For most of them life runs not the same way Always, but leaves the thought at loss: I know Merely that Woolner keeps not even the show Of work, nor is enough awake for play. Meanwhile Hunt and myself race at full speed Along the Louvre, and yawn from school to school, Wishing worn-out those masters known as old. And no man asks of Browning; though indeed (As the book travels with me) any fool Who would might hear Sordello's story told. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ALTAR STONE by RICHARD ALEXANDER A BERKSHIRE HOLIDAY by CLIFFORD BAX ADDRESS TO HIS NATIVE VALE by ROBERT BLOOMFIELD THE SUNLIT VALE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN AN INSCRIPTION by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |