Quotes
Quotes - Browning
When fight begins within himself, a man's worth something.
What I aspired to be and was not, comforts me.
It is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine at least.
Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; And only he who sees takes off his shoes; The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.
Autumn wins you best by this, its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay.
The beauty seems right By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong Because of weakness.
The essence of all beauty, I call love, The attribute, the evidence, and end, The consummation to the inward sense Of beauty apprehended from without, I still call love.
Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, Half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, And flare up bodily, wings and all.
We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits--so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth-- 'Tis then we get the right good from a book.
Books, books, books! I had found the secret of a garret room Piled high with cases in my father's name; Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and out Among the giant fossils of my past, Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there At this or that box, pulling through the gap, In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, The first book first. And how I felt it beat Under my pillow, in the morning's dark, An hour before the sun would let me read! My books! At last, because the time was ripe, I chanced upon the poets.
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
He likes the poor things of the world the best, I would not, therefore, if I could be rich. It pleases him t stoop for buttercups.
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure.
No, when the fight begins within himself, A man's worth something.
There's a woman like a dew-drop, She's so purer than the purest.
Women know The way to rear up children (to be just); They know a simple, merry, tender knack Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, And stringing pretty words that make no sense, And kissing full sense into empty words; Which things are corals to cut life upon, Although such trifles.
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears.
It's wiser being good than bad; It's safer being meek than fierce: It's fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That, after Last, returns the First, Though a wide compass round be fetched; That what began best, can't end worst, Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.
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 flight better, Sleep to wake.
There's not a crime But takes its proper change out still in crime If once rung on the counter of this world.
And a breastplate made of daisies, Closely fitting, leaf on leaf, Periwinkles interlaced Drawn for belt about the waist; While the brown bees, humming praises, Shot their arrows round the chief.
Day! Faster and more fast, O'er night's brim, day boils at last; Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim.
Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death.
'Tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do.
