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That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.

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
Small
Spirit
Hands
Great
Propping
Brow
Brows
Hand

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Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain
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The ultimate, angels' law, Indulging every instinct of the soul There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing!
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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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That's the wise thrush he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
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I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.
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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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What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
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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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Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
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God smiles as He has always smiled Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled The Heavens, God thought on me His child Ordained a life for me, arrayed Its circumstances, every one To the minutest ay, God said This head this hand should rest upon Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun.
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In this world, who can do a thing, will not And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle.
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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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Truth never hurts the teller.
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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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The past is gained, secure, and on record.
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Of what I call God, And fools call Nature.
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Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
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Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
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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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