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Robert Browning

Robert Browning

The Year’s at the Spring

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in his Heaven—
All’s right with the world!

#EnglishWriters #Victorian

Altre opere di Robert Browning...
From ‘paracelsus’

TRUTH is within ourselves; it ta… From outward things, whate’er you… There is an inmost centre in us al… Where truth abides in fullness; an… Wall upon wall, the gross flesh he…
Cavalier Tunes

. MARCHING ALONG. Kentish Sir Byng stood for his K… Bidding the crop-headed Parliamen… And, pressing a troop unable to st… And see the rogues flourish and ho…
Bad Dreams: I

LAST night I saw you in my sleep… And how your charm of face was cha… I asked ‘Some love, some faith yo… You answered ‘Faith gone, love es… Whereat I woke—a twofold bliss:
Count Gismond—Aix in Provence

Christ God who savest man, save m… Of men Count Gismond who saved me… Count Gauthier, when he chose his… Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at leng…
Humility

WHAT girl but, having gathered f… Stript the beds and spoilt the bow… From the lapful light she carries Drops a careless bud?—nor tarries To regain the waif and stray:
Arcades Ambo

A. You blame me that I ran away? Why, Sir, the enemy advanced: Balls flew about, and—who can say But one, if I stood firm, had gla… In my direction? Cowardice?
The Italian in England

That second time they hunted me From hill to plain, from shore to… And Austria, hounding far and wid… Her blood-hounds thro’ the country… Breathed hot and instant on my tra…
Verse

Verse-making was least of my virtu… Wealth that never yet was but migh… If the life would but lengthen to… So I said, “To do little is bad,… And made verse.
In a Year

Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill,
The Lost Mistress

All’s over, then: does truth sound… As one at first believes? Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-nigh… About your cottage eaves! And the leaf-buds on the vine are…
The Pope and the Net

What, he on whom our voices unanim… Made Pope at our last Conclave?… His father earned the daily bread… So much the more his boy minds boo… Becomes first Deacon, and then Pr…
The Death of Chatterton, by Henry Wallis
After

Take the cloak from his face, and… Let the corpse do its worst! How he lies in his rights of a man… Death has done all death can. And, absorbed in the new life he l…
 1
Garden Francies

I. THE FLOWER’S NAME Here’s the garden she walked acros… Arm in my arm, such a short while… Hark, now I push its wicket, the… Hinders the hinges and makes them…
Apparitions

(_Prologue to ‘The Two Poets of… Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born!
Flute-Music, with an Accompaniment

He. AH, the bird-like fluting Through the ash-tops yonder— Bullfinch-bubblings, soft sounds s… What sweet thoughts, I wonder? Fine-pearled notes that surely



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