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It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.

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
Rose
Flower
Path
Way
Like
Myrtle
Roses
Mixed
Mad

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Praise is deeper than the lips
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Love is energy of life.
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In this world, who can do a thing, will not And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.
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Tis Man's to explore up and down, inch by inch, with the taper his reason.
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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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Other heights in other lives, God willing.
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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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how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
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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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The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
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How good is life, the mere living!
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Love is the energy of life.
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Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
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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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My care is for myself Myself am whole and sole reality.
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And gain is gain, however small.
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But there are times when patience proves at fault.
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Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.
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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 devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
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