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Praise is deeper than the lips

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
Lips
Deeper
Praise

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Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
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The candid incline to surmise of late that the Christian faith proves false.
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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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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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The heavens and earth stay as they were my heart Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.
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Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
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How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change.
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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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A lion may die of an ass's kick.
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Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
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All's love, yet all's law.
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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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Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
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As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
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Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
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The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.
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Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.
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All service ranks the same with God,- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.
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It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
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You never know what life means till you die even throughout life, tis death that makes life live.
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