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Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.

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
Tree
Lasts
Last
Three
Oaks
Stands
Families
Pass
Generations

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Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.
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What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
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Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain Learn, nor account the pang dare, never grudge the throe!
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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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Tis looking downward makes one dizzy.
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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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I am grown peaceful as old age tonight.
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Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
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He who did well in war just earns the right, To begin doing well in peace.
Robert Browning
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Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!
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Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike.
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The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
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Would you have your songs endure? Build on the human heart.
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I do what many dream of, all their lives
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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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One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake.
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Look not down but up!
Robert Browning
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The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
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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.
Robert Browning
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Most progress is most failure.
Robert Browning