It does not seem worth saying.

In one sense it is a truism; in another it resembles nonsense.

Words are the only way by which we can express truth, or our nearest approach to what we think it is.

At any rate, silence, in spite of Maeterlinck, does not express it.
Moreover, with regard to the matter in hand, Browning knew well enough how a poet would decide the question of expediency he has here brought into debate.

He has decided it elsewhere; but here he chooses not to take that view, that he may have the fun of exercising his clever brain.
There is no reason why he should not entertain himself and us in this way; but folk need not call this intellectual jumping to and fro a poem, or try to induce us to believe that it is the work of art.
When he had finished these products of a time when he was intoxicated with his intellect, and of course somewhat proud of it, the poet in him began to revive.