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Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.

Robert Browning

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Robert Browning
Age: 77 †
Born: 1812
Born: May 7
Died: 1889
Died: December 12
Dramaturgy
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Robert Barrett Browning
Browning
Stung
Splendour
Sudden
Thought

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Of power does Man possess no particle: Of knowledge-just so much as show that still It ends in ignorance on every side.
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And gain is gain, however small.
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For the preacher's merit or demerit, It were to be wished that the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessel, holding treasure, But the main thing is, does it hold good measure Heaven soon sets right all other matters!
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I judge people by what they might be, - not are, nor will be.
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Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it 'Italy.'
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Love is the energy of life.
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Truth never hurts the teller.
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Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
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Say not a small event! Why small? Costs it more pain that this ye call A great event should come to pass From that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed!
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I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.
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Genius has somewhat of the infantine but of the childish not a touch or taint.
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No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold.
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Never the time and the place And the loved one all together.
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All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white-we call it black.
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The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
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O woman-country! wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead.
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Other heights in other lives, God willing.
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The heavens and earth stay as they were my heart Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.
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What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
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how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
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