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Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.

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
Lose
Loses
Never
Eden
Lest
Apple
Apples
Curiosity

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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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Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
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Thought is the soul of act.
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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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Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
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He who did well in war just earns the right, To begin doing well in peace.
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And gain is gain, however small.
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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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Go in thy native innocence, rely On what thou hast of virtue, summon all, For God towards thee hath done his part, do thine.
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All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white-we call it black.
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That's the wise thrush he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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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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Time'swheelsrunsbackor stops: Potterand clayendure.
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I judge people by what they might be, - not are, nor will be.
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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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A minute's success pays the failure of years.
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One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.
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Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
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Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
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Faultless to a fault.
Robert Browning