Quote

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

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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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The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
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Who knows most, doubts most.
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I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on.
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Truth is within ourselves.
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Look not down but up!
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Good to forgive, Best to forget.
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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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The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
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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 heavens and earth stay as they were my heart Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.
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He who did well in war just earns the right, To begin doing well in peace.
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Who knows most, doubts most entertaining hope means recognizing fear.
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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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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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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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Wander at will, Day after day,-- Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more.
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It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
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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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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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