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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

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
Heaven
Confess
Else
Fools
Earth
Account
Vanity
Accounts
Praise
Inanity
Fool
Itch
Knowledge
Yearn

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Success in marriage is more than finding the right person: it is being the right person.
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What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?
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The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
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You should not take a fellow eight years old and make him swear to never kiss the girls.
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Let friend trust friends, and love demand love's like.
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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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Be sure they sleep not whom God needs.
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There are those who believe something, and therefore will tolerate nothing and on the other hand, those who tolerate everything, because they believe nothing.
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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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Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
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Shakespeare was of us, Milton was of us, Burns, Shelley, were with us. They watch from their graves!
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Would you have your songs endure? Build on the human heart.
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As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
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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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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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Good to forgive, Best to forget.
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All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!
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Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.
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It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
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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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