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Twere too absurd to slight For the hereafter the todays delight!

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
Todays
Slight
Hereafter
Absurd
Delight
Pleasure
Today
Twere

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Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
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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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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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Good to forgive, Best to forget.
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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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He who did well in war just earns the right, To begin doing well in peace.
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And gain is gain, however small.
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Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
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It 's wiser being good than bad It 's safer being meek than fierce It 's fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched That after Last returns the First, Though a wide compass round be fetched.
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Say not a small event! Why small? Costs it more pain that this ye call A great event should come to pass From that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed!
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Sorrow, the heart must bear, Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there. Many a circumstance, at least, Touches the very breast. For those Whom any sent away,--he knows: And in the live man's stead, Armor and ashes reach The house of each.
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That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
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Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
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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 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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One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.
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The great mind knows the power of gentleness.
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God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.
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Shun death, is my advice.
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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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