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Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.

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
Hour
Rest
Days
Hours
Lasts
Wilt
Last
Strike
Best
Strikes
Thou

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The past is gained, secure, and on record.
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Faultless to a fault.
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Ah, love, - you are my unutterable blessing.....I am in full sunshine now.
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For the preacher's merit or demerit, It were to be wished that the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessel, holding treasure, But the main thing is, does it hold good measure Heaven soon sets right all other matters!
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Lofty designs must close in like effects.
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Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!
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And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the bean-flowers' boon, And the blackbird's tune, And May, and June!
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Tis Man's to explore up and down, inch by inch, with the taper his reason.
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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 of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
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Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart.
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What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
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The trouble that most of us find with the modern matched sets of clubs is that they don't really seem to know any more about the game than the old ones did.
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Thought is the soul of act.
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Be sure they sleep not whom God needs.
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Never brag, never bluster, never blush.
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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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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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Genius has somewhat of the infantine but of the childish not a touch or taint.
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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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