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Into the street the piper stepped, Smiling first a little smile As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while. And the piper advanced And the children followed.
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
Littles
Advanced
Little
Followed
Firsts
Street
Pipers
First
Smile
Piper
Children
Quiet
Stepped
Streets
Slept
Magic
Pipe
Knew
Smiling
More quotes by Robert Browning
With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart once more! Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
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Let friend trust friends, and love demand love's like.
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Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
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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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No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold.
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A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.
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You never know what life means till you die even throughout life, tis death that makes life live.
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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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Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
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Good to forgive, Best to forget.
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Who knows most, doubts most.
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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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When the liquor's out, why clink the cannikin?
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Oh the wild joys of living! The leaping from rock to rock ... the cool silver shock of the plunge in a pool's living waters.
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Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.
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White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so life's business being just the terrible choice.
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Thought is the soul of act.
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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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A man in armor is his armor's slave.
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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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