Quotes
Quotes - Browning
'Twas a yellow rose, By that south window of the little house, My cousin Romney gathered with his hand On all my birthdays, for me. save the last; And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough, For roses to stay after.
O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
Red as a rose of Harpocrate.
And thus, what can we do, Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared season?
"For if I wait," said she, "Till time for roses be,-- For the moss-rose and the musk-rose, Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose,-- "What glory then for me In such a company?-- Roses plenty, roses plenty And one nightingale for twenty?"
You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter?
A white rosebud for a guerdon.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
Many a crown Covers bald foreheads.
Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
How joyously the young sea-mew Lay dreaming on the waters blue, Whereon our little bark had thrown A little shade, the only one; But shadows ever man pursue.
There, Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world. Oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time.
"With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart," once more! Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare be!
How he sleepeth! having drunken Weary childhood's mandragore, From his pretty eyes have sunken Pleasures to make room for more-- Sleeping near the withered nosegay which he pulled the day before.
Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is. For gift or grace, surpassing this-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."
Sleep on, Baby, on the floor, Tired of all the playing, Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in! On your curls' full roundness stand Golden lights serenely-- One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly.
Don't stay in bed, unless you can make money in bed.
A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one-- And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all.
And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.
That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it; This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundreds soon hit: His high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit.
Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked! I do not.
Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by Death.
And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And gone my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth His beloved sleep."
Thank God for grace, Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.
Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?
