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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
Lips
Stop
Wonder
Left
Soul
Kissing
More quotes by Robert Browning
The great beacon light God sets in all, the conscience of each bosom.
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Faultless to a fault.
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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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The common problem, yours, mine, everyone's Is ? not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be ? but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means.
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Is your love for the Lord sufficient to give all your time and talents to his work?
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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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God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her.
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The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
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Praise is deeper than the lips
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Time'swheelsrunsbackor stops: Potterand clayendure.
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Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
Robert Browning
Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?
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Good to forgive, Best to forget.
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Aspire, break bounds. Endeavor to be good, and better still, best.
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Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware.
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Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
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If you can sit at set of sun And count the deeds that you have done And counting find oneself-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him that heard. One glance most kind, Which fell like sunshine where he went, Then you may count that day well spent.
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Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
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Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
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Of what I call God, And fools call Nature.
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