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Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain

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
Past
Must
Succeed
Pleasure
Turns
Pain
Else

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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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Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
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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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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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The candid incline to surmise of late that the Christian faith proves false.
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O never star Was lost here We all aspire to heaven and there is heaven Above us. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time I press God's lamp Close to my breast its splendor soon or late Will pierce the gloom. I shall emerge some day.
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All's love, yet all's law.
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Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
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I do what many dream of, all their lives
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But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
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But there are times when patience proves at fault.
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Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
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A minute's success pays the failure of years.
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A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.
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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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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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What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.
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The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.
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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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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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