Energy which disregards the standard of classical art is in nature as it is in Browning.

The same sense of the uproarious force in things which makes Browning dwell on the oddity of a fungus or a jellyfish makes him dwell on the oddity of a philosophical idea.

Here, for example, we have a random instance from "The Englishman in Italy" of the way in which Browning, when he was most Browning, regarded physical nature.
"And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling alive With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit; You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at." Nature might mean flowers to Wordsworth and grass to Walt Whitman, but to Browning it really meant such things as these, the monstrosities and living mysteries of the sea.

And just as these strange things meant to Browning energy in the physical world, so strange thoughts and strange images meant to him energy in the mental world.

When, in one of his later poems, the professional mystic is seeking in a supreme moment of sincerity to explain that small things may be filled with God as well as great, he uses the very same kind of image, the image of a shapeless sea-beast, to embody that noble conception.
"The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst, The simplest of creations, just a sac That's mouth, heart, legs, and belly at once, yet lives And feels, and could do neither, we conclude, If simplified still further one degree." (SLUDGE.) These bulbous, indescribable sea-goblins are the first thing on which the eye of the poet lights in looking on a landscape, and the last in the significance of which he trusts in demonstrating the mercy of the Everlasting.
There is another and but slightly different use of the grotesque, but which is definitely valuable in Browning's poetry, and indeed in all poetry.