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Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

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
Saddles
Boot
Boots
Horse
Away
Saddle

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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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A lion may die of an ass's kick.
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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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With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart once more! Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
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And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the bean-flowers' boon, And the blackbird's tune, And May, and June!
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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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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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But God has a few of us to whom he whispers in the ear The rest may reason and welcome 'tis we musicians know.
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Who knows most, doubts most entertaining hope means recognizing fear.
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Time'swheelsrunsbackor stops: Potterand clayendure.
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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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Ignorance is not innocence but sin.
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Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
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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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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.
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Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?
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Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
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I do what many dream of, all their lives
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