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I do what many dream of, all their lives

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
Lives
Action
Dream
Many

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how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
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Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.
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A man in armor is his armor's slave.
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My care is for myself Myself am whole and sole reality.
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It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
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Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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God smiles as He has always smiled Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled The Heavens, God thought on me His child Ordained a life for me, arrayed Its circumstances, every one To the minutest ay, God said This head this hand should rest upon Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun.
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I judge people by what they might be, - not are, nor will be.
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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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To me at least was never evening yet, but seemed far beautifuller than its day.
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Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.
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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.
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Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
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Days decrease, / And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
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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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Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware.
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Desire joy and thank God for it. Renounce it, if need be, for other's sake. That's joy beyond joy.
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All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!
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We mortals cross the ocean of this world Each in his average cabin of a life The bests not big, the worst yields elbowroom.
Robert Browning