Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in his hand
Who saith, “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”
Category: Robert Browning
Robert Browning (7 May 1812 – 12 December 1889) was an English poet and playwright whose mastery of dramatic verse, and in particular the dramatic monologue, made him one of the foremost Victorian poets.
When the fight begins within himself,
A man ‘s worth something.
If you get simple beauty and naught else,
You get about the best thing God invents.
Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!
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the truth remains the truth.
The heavens and earth stay as they were; my heart
Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.
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Progress is the law of life
Progress is
The law of life: man is not Man as yet.
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.
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Error has no end.
Error has no end.
Autumn wins you best by this its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.
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Truth is within ourselves.
Truth is within ourselves.
The moment eternal — just that and no more —
When ecstasy’s utmost we clutch at the core
While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut and lips meet!
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe, — all were for me
In the kiss of one girl.
A minute’s success pays the failure of years.
What Youth deemed crystal,
Age finds out was dew.
Womanliness means only motherhood;
All love begins and ends there.
Who hears music feels his solitude
Peopled at once.
We loved, sir — used to meet:
How sad and bad and mad it was —
But then, how it was sweet!
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all men strive and who succeeds?
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
I judge people by what they might be,—not are, nor will be.
The lie was dead
And damned, and truth stood up instead.
Deeds let escape are never to be done.
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?
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 hundred’s soon hit:
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.