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Genius has somewhat of the infantine but of the childish not a touch or taint.

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
Taint
Childish
Somewhat
Touch
Genius

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Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!
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The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
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how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
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Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
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All poetry is difficult to read - The sense of it anyhow.
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The trouble that most of us find with the modern matched sets of clubs is that they don't really seem to know any more about the game than the old ones did.
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But there are times when patience proves at fault.
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I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.
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If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.
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What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.
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What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
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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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For the preacher's merit or demerit, It were to be wished that the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessel, holding treasure, But the main thing is, does it hold good measure Heaven soon sets right all other matters!
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Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth
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Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
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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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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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Truth is within ourselves. There is an inmost center in us all, where the truth abides in fullness.
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Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbeloving Unless you can die when the dream is past- Oh, never call it loving!
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How good is life, the mere living!
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