Robert Browning Quotes (332 Quotes)




    Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.

    Oh, never star Was lost here, but it rose afar Look East, where whole new thousands are In Vishnu-land what Avatar



    Thy love shall hold me fast
    Until the little minute's sleep is past
    And I wake saved.


    Give both the infinitudes their due - Infinite mercy, but, I wis, As infinite a justice too.

    White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so: life's business being just the terrible choice.

    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.

    How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!

    They are perfect how elsethey shall never change We are faulty why notwe have time in store.

    The bee's kiss, now Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday.


    For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the grey.

    Burn upward each to his point of bliss --
    Since, the end of life being manifest,
    He had burned his way through the world to this.

    Let me not know that all is lost, though lost it be - leave me not tied to this despair, this corpse like bride

    Whom but a dusk misfeatured messenger, No other than the angel of this life, Whose care is lest men see too much at once.

    What, you want, do you, to come unawares, Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers, And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs Do I carry the moon in my pocket


    If two lives join, there is oft a scar. They are one and one, with a shadowy third One near one is too far.

    Thy rare gold ring of verse (the poet praised) Linking our England to his Italy.

    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.


    For the loving worm within its clod, Were diviner than a loveless god.

    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.




    There's heaven above, and night by night I look right through its gorgeous roof.


    Through such souls alone God stooping shows sufficient of His light For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise.


    God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,
    To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.

    Dear dead women, with such hair, too - what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms I feel chilly and grow old.


    Abate, - Cardinal, - Christ, - Maria, - God . . . Pompilia, will you let them murder me

    Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?


    And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient, comes, and lo is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.

    Thou at first prompting of what I call God, And fools call Nature, didst hear, comprehend, Accept the obligation laid on thee.


    Are there not, dear Michael, Two points in the adventure of the diver, One, when a beggar he prepares to plunge One, when a prince he rises with his pearl Festus, I plunge.


    Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-tetootle the fife No keeping one's haunches still it's the greatest pleasure in life


    The day's at the morn Mornings at seven The hillside's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven All's right with the world.

    Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead. So free we seem, so fettered fast we are

    Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again How strange it seems, and new.



    Related Authors


    Walt Whitman - Virgil - T. S. Eliot - Rabindranath Tagore - Aeschylus - Thomas Middleton - Sophocles - Omar Khayyam - Octavio Paz - Geoffrey Chaucer


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