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God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.
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
Reach
Prove
Justice
Tardy
Though
Delinquency
Never
Perchance
Rests
Track
God
More quotes by Robert Browning
Shun death, is my advice.
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Let friend trust friends, and love demand love's like.
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There are those who believe something, and therefore will tolerate nothing and on the other hand, those who tolerate everything, because they believe nothing.
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Truth is truth howe'er it strike.
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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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Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
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One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.
Robert Browning
And gain is gain, however small.
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The candid incline to surmise of late that the Christian faith proves false.
Robert Browning
And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.
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Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
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Tis Man's to explore up and down, inch by inch, with the taper his reason.
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A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.
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A pretty woman's worth some pains to see.
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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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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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Never brag, never bluster, never blush.
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Into the street the piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while. And the piper advanced And the children followed.
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How good is life, the mere living!
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Mid the sharp, short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip at the end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.
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