It's not quite fair to Robert Browning that his poetic legacy now lives in the wake of Ezra's Pound's unjust but memorable portrait in "Mesmerism": "You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope."

How welcome Browning's playfulness seems in the landscape of serious 19th century British poetry. Apart from Byron - who I often think was a late-born Tory satirist - the Romantics are heavy on philosophical pondering, light on jokes. And much post-Romantic verse is either driven by anxieties about social and technological change or retreats into decadence. Both are compelling, but neither is exactly fun.

It's as though the 19th-century novel takes over from poetry the role of wry wit and social satire.

But not Robert Browning. Browning is a delight. ( )

I haven't read all the poems.

I enjoyed the shorter ones, and some of the longer ones, but I generally have a hard time sticking with a poem that goes on for several pages.

A few poems were familiar from college freshman English class.

By the way this book was a Christmas gift. ( )