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Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

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
Whistle
Cousin
Love

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Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain
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I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on.
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Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
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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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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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Smiling the boy fell dead.
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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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Tis looking downward makes one dizzy.
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Thought is the soul of act.
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Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
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Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart.
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The peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn some nymph Swims bearing high above her head.
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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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Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.
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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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For I say this is death and the sole death,- When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.
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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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Have you found your life distasteful? My life did, and does, smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I'll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.
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Aspire, break bounds. Endeavor to be good, and better still, best.
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Oh the wild joys of living! The leaping from rock to rock ... the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living waters.
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