Their music has its home in the Will of God and we shall find them completed there.
All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by.
* * * Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce.
Give me the keys.

I feel for the common chord again, Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor,--yes, And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep." With that he returns to human life, content to labour in its limits--the common chord is his.

But he has been where he shall be, and he is not likely to be satisfied with the C major of life.

This, in Browning's thought, is the true comfort and strength of the life of the artist, to whom these fallings from us, vanishings, these transient visits of the infinite Divine, like swallows that pass in full flight, are more common than to other men.

They tell him of the unspeakable beauty; they let loose his spirit to fly into the third heaven.
So much for the theory in this poem.