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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
Leads
Devil
Perhaps
Way
Downward
Fiddle

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I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.
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Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
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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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When a man's busy, why leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy.
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Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.
Robert Browning
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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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A minute's success pays the failure of years.
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Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.
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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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Take away love and our earth is a tomb.
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Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last.
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Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!
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All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white-we call it black.
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When the liquor's out, why clink the cannikin?
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Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?
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Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop.
Robert Browning
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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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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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Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it 'Italy.'
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I say, the acknowledgment of God in ChristAccepted by thy reason, solves for theeAll questions in the earth and out of it,And has so far advanced thee to be wise.
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