Robert Browning
The Bishop Orders His Tomb At Saint Praxed's Church
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews sons mine ah God, I know not! Well She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied
From 'Paracelsus'
I TRUTH is within ourselves; it takes no rise From outward things, whate’er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fullness; and around, Wall upon wall,
In A Year
Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive: Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. II. Was it something said, Something
Women And Roses
I. I dream of a red-rose tree. And which of its roses three Is the dearest rose to me? II. Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its
Prospice
Fear death?-to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of
In A Gondola
The moth’s kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it,
In Three Days
I. So, I shall see her in three days And just one night, but nights are short, Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn! Feel, where my
Cavalier Tunes: Marching Along
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty score strong,
Summum Bonum
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one
Thus the Mayne glideth
THUS the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth; Sleep ‘s no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate’er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not
A Lovers' Quarrel
I. Oh, what a dawn of day! How the March sun feels like May! All is blue again After last night’s rain, And the South dries the hawthorn-spray. Only, my Love’s away! I’d as
From 'Pauline'
O God, where does this tend-these struggling aims? What would I have? What is this ‘sleep’, which seems To bound all? can there be a ‘waking’ point Of crowning life? The soul would never
Before
I. Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far. God must judge the couple: leave them as they are – Whichever one’s the guiltless, to his glory, And whichever one the
Up At A Villa – Down In The City
(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality) I Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; Ah, such
The Lost Mistress
All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter About your cottage eaves! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that today;