Robert Browning

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold:

Thus shall he go on, greatening, till he ends— The man of men, the spirit of all flesh, The fiery centre of an earthly world!

with the world, each gift Of God and man, — reality, tradition, Fancy and fact — so well environ him, That as a mystic panoply they serve — Of force, untenanted, to awe mankind, And work his purpose out with half the world

He gathers earth's whole good into his arms; Standing, as man now, stately, strong and wise, Marching to fortune, not surprised by her.

The heavens and earth stay as they were; my heart Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.

When is man strong until he feels alone?

All service ranks the same with God,— With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.

In the morning of the world, When earth was nigher heaven than now.

Some unsuspected isle in the far seas,— Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas.

The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearl'd; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn;

Say not "a small event!" Why "small"? Costs it more pain that this ye call A "great event" should come to pass From that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed!

Any nose May ravage with impunity a rose.

Each a God's germ, but doomed remain a germ In unexpanded infancy

Deeds let escape are never to be done.

Have they fancies — slow, perchance, Not at their beck, which indistinctly glance Until by song each floating part be linked To each, and all grow palpable, distinct? He pondered this.

So men believe And worship what they know not, nor receive Delight from.

The hill-cat boasts some cunning of her own, Some stealthy tricks to better beasts unknown That quick with prey enough her hunger blunts And feeds her fat while gaunt the lion hunts.

over zealous in the feat And stumbling on a peril unaware. Was captive, "trammelled in his proper snare," They phrase it, "taken by his own intrigue"

Fear had long since taken root In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit, The ripe hate, like a wine

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.

The peerless cup afloat Of the lake-lily is an urn some nymph Swims bearing high above her head.

Jove strikes the Titans down Not when they set about their mountain-piling But when another rock would crown the work.

Every joy is gain And gain is gain, however small.