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What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

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
Wonder
Left
Soul
Kissing
Lips
Stop

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Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
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But God has a few of us to whom he whispers in the ear The rest may reason and welcome 'tis we musicians know.
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What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
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God smiles as He has always smiled Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled The Heavens, God thought on me His child Ordained a life for me, arrayed Its circumstances, every one To the minutest ay, God said This head this hand should rest upon Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun.
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The great mind knows the power of gentleness.
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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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Truth is truth howe'er it strike.
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Aspire, break bounds. Endeavor to be good, and better still, best.
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And gain is gain, however small.
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Shun death, is my advice.
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Never brag, never bluster, never blush.
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Most progress is most failure.
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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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I am grown peaceful as old age tonight.
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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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Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
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That's the wise thrush he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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Go in thy native innocence, rely On what thou hast of virtue, summon all, For God towards thee hath done his part, do thine.
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Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.
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In heaven I yearn for knowledge, account all else inanity On earth I confess an itch for the praise of fools - that's vanity
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