Quote

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.

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
Rhyme
Flutes
Song
Makers
Bakers
Soul
Rhymes
Much
Brains
Butchers
Candlestick
Pursuit
Paints
Haply
Blow
Mute
Flute
Paint
Maker
Baker
Brain
Blows
Butcher
Upon

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Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
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Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.
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I judge people by what they might be, - not are, nor will be.
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Look not down but up!
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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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Who knows most, doubts most.
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Let friend trust friends, and love demand love's like.
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Go in thy native innocence, rely On what thou hast of virtue, summon all, For God towards thee hath done his part, do thine.
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Have you found your life distasteful? My life did, and does, smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I'll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.
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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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Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it 'Italy.'
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For I say this is death and the sole death,- When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.
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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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What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
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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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Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain
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That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
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Truth never hurts the teller.
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When a man's busy, why leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy.
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Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.
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