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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
Soul
Kissing
Lips
Stop
Wonder
Left

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All service ranks the same with God,- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.
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The past is gained, secure, and on record.
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How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change.
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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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He guides me and the bird. In His good time!
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Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.
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Wander at will, Day after day,-- Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more.
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Imperfection means perfection hid.
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But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
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Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
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A man in armor is his armor's slave.
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What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.
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Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain Learn, nor account the pang dare, never grudge the throe!
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Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
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Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!
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Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?
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Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
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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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Our aspirations are our responsibilities.
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Truth is truth howe'er it strike.
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