Robert Browning Quotes - Page 5

Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it ‘Italy.'

When is man strong until he feels alone?

There is an inmost center in us all, where truth abides in fullness;....and, to know, rather consists in opening out a way where the imprisoned splendor may escape, then in effecting entry for a light supposed to be without.

Escape me? Never, beloved! While I am I, and you are you.

For life, with all its yields of joy and woe Is just a chance o' the prize of learning love.

Art remains the one way possible of speaking truth.

Outside are the storms and strangers: we — Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, — I and she!

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.

T'was a thief said the last kind word to Christ. Christ took the kindness and forgave the theft.

O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.

Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.

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

You never know what life means till you die; even throughout life, tis death that makes life live.

Wander at will, Day after day,-- Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more.

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

Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.

It 's wiser being good than bad; It 's safer being meek than fierce; It 's fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That after Last returns the First, Though a wide compass round be fetched.

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

The best way to excape his ire Is, not to seem too happy.

You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o'ercomes doubt.

A man in armor is his armor's slave.

Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled!

Men are not angels, neither are they brutes.

Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.

All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.