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The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!

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
Way
Downward
Fiddle
Leads
Devil
Perhaps

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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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No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold.
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That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
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All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
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With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart once more! Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
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What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
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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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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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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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And gain is gain, however small.
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Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.
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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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That's the wise thrush he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
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O never star Was lost here We all aspire to heaven and there is heaven Above us. If I stoop Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, It is but for a time I press God's lamp Close to my breast its splendor soon or late Will pierce the gloom. I shall emerge some day.
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Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her- Next time, herself!-not the trouble behind her
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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.
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When the liquor's out, why clink the cannikin?
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No, when the fight begins within himself, / A man's worth something.
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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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To me at least was never evening yet, but seemed far beautifuller than its day.
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