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Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.

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
Priests
Manage
Tools
Atheism
Wife
Mother
Maids
Men
Wives
Mothers

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It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
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Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
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Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.
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Truth is within ourselves.
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He who did well in war just earns the right, To begin doing well in peace.
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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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And gain is gain, however small.
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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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White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so life's business being just the terrible choice.
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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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How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!
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Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
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That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
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Ah, love, - you are my unutterable blessing.....I am in full sunshine now.
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A pretty woman's worth some pains to see.
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Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
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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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The great beacon light God sets in all, the conscience of each bosom.
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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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Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
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