Robert Browning Quotes (332 Quotes)

Our gifts, once given, must here abide.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

Another Boehme with a tougher book And subtler meanings of what roses say.

A man in armour is his armours slave.

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me

Life is an empty dream.

Dante, who loved well because he hated, Hated wickedness that hinders loving.

In Gods good time, Which does not always fall on Saturday When the world looks for wages.

And still, as love's brief morning wore,
With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh,
They found love not as it seemed before.

Stand still, true poet that you are I know you let me try and draw you. Some night youll fail us when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star.

Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-west died away.

Say not 'a small event' Why 'small' Costs it more pain that this ye call A 'great event' should come to pass From that Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed.

Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, Death ending all with a knife.

Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast.

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.

All poetry is difficult to read The sense of it anyhow.

Oh Heaven, and the terrible crystal!

How the world is made for each of us!

My life is a fault at last, I fear:
It seems too much like a fate, indeed!

Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

When a man's busy, why leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure Faith, and at leisure once is he Straightaway he wants to be busy

Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

No part in aught they hope or fear!

Lose who may I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they.

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.'

Every joy is gain, and gain is gain, however small.

Thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine,
But love I gave thee, with myself to love,
And thou must love me who have died for thee!

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.

By this time he has tested his first plough, And studied his last chapter of St John.

Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?

I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer

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.

I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.

He who did most, shall bear most the strongest shall stand the most weak.

Or, my scrofulous French novel On grey paper with blunt type Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial's gripe.

Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt?

Does he paint he fain would write a poem, Does he write he fain would paint a picture

Why stay we on the earth except to grow.

The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, And again in his border see Israel set.

A touch divine - And the scaled eyeball owns the mystic rod Visibly through his garden walketh God.

O world, as God has made it!

The glory dropped from their youth and love, And both perceived they had dreamed a dream.

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea Breath and bloom, shade and shine, wonder, wealth, andhow far above them Truth, that's brighter than gem, Truth, that's purer than pearl, Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe all were for me In the kiss of one girl.

Over my head his arm he flung Against the world.

When is man strong until he feels alone Colombe's Birthday.

Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.

Also it pleaseth Setebos to work,
Use all His hands, and exercise much craft,
By no means for the love of what is worked.

This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever.

The grand Perhaps.

Give us no more of body than shows soul!