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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
Mad
Rose
Flower
Path
Way
Like
Myrtle
Roses
Mixed

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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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With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart once more! Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
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When the liquor's out, why clink the cannikin?
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Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her- Next time, herself!-not the trouble behind her
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Who knows most, doubts most.
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how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
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A man in armor is his armor's slave.
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The ultimate, angels' law, Indulging every instinct of the soul There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing!
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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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Truth never hurt the teller.
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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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A pretty woman's worth some pains to see.
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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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The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
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Genius has somewhat of the infantine but of the childish not a touch or taint.
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I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute.
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Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!
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