Robert Browning

Oh their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Oh their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song—and in my brain I sing it; Drew one angel—borne, see, on my bosom!

God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides,—one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her!

Other heights in other lives, God willing.

Rafael made a century of sonnets.

Lofty designs must close in like effects.

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;

He said true things, but called them by the wrong names.

When the fight begins within himself, A man's worth something.

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, The superstitious atheist.

Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): "Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it ‘Italy.'"

Progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beasts': God is, they are, Man partly is and wholly hopes to be.

What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on.

You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls.

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!

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?

Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter) — so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.

I do what many dream of, all their lives, — Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing.

'Tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do!

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!

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.

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!

Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf.