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Smiling the boy fell dead.

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
Fell
Boys
Dead
Smiling

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The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.
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Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
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Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
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A minute's success pays the failure of years.
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A lion may die of an ass's kick.
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With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart once more! Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
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Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!
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I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.
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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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Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware.
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I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on.
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Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.
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Aspire, break bounds. Endeavor to be good, and better still, best.
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As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
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Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
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Sorrow, the heart must bear, Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there. Many a circumstance, at least, Touches the very breast. For those Whom any sent away,--he knows: And in the live man's stead, Armor and ashes reach The house of each.
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But there are times when patience proves at fault.
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Our aspirations are our responsibilities.
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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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It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
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