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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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Love is the energy of life.
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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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A man in armor is his armor's slave.
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White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so life's business being just the terrible choice.
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God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her.
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All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!
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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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But God has a few of us to whom he whispers in the ear The rest may reason and welcome 'tis we musicians know.
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What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
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But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, to dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, and baffled, get up and begin again.
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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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Truth is truth howe'er it strike.
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And gain is gain, however small.
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Who knows most, doubts most.
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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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Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
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Shun death, is my advice.
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But little do or can the best of us: That little is achieved through Liberty.
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Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth
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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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