As to the conclusion, it is priceless.

Such a conclusion can only emerge when all that precedes it finely contains it, and I have often thought that it pictures Browning himself.

I wish he had been buried on a mountain top, all Italy below him.
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye high-flyers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews! Here's the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know-- Bury this man there?
Here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightenings are loosened.
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying.
This is the artist at work, and I doubt whether all the laborious prose written, in history and criticism, on the revival of learning, will ever express better than this short poem the inexhaustible thirst of the Renaissance in its pursuit of knowledge, or the enthusiasm of the pupils of a New Scholar for his desperate strife to know in a short life the very centre of the Universe.
Another poem on the arts which is mixed up with Browning's theory of life is _Andrea del Sarto_.

Into it the theory slips, like an uninvited guest into a dinner-party of whom it is felt that he has some relation to some one of the guests, but for whom no cover is laid.

The faulty and broken life of Andrea, in its contrast with his flawless drawing, has been a favourite subject with poets.