Robert Browning

Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

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

That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.

O woman-country! wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead.

What's come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth we shall practise in heaven; Works done least rapidly Art most cherishes.

They are perfect; how else?—they shall never change: We are faulty; why not?—we have time in store.

We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

The sin I impute to each frustrute ghost Is—the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

When the liquor's out, why clink the cannikin?

Oh never star Was lost here but it rose afar.

Just my vengeance complete, The man sprang to his feet, Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed! So, I was afraid!

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

The sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea.

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

It is the glory and good of Art That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth,—to mouths like mine, at least.

Inscribe all human effort with one word, Artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

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

Why comes temptation, but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?

The curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness.

But, brave, Thou at first prompting of what I call God, And fools call Nature, didst hear, comprehend, Accept the obligation laid on thee, Mother elect, to save the unborn child, As brute and bird do, reptile and the fly,

Oh child that didst despise thy life so much When it seemed only thine to keep or lose, How the fine ear felt fall the first low word "Value life, and preserve life for My sake!"

On our Pompilia, faultless to a fault, Law bends a brow maternally severe, Implies the worth of perfect chastity, By fancying the flaw she cannot find.