Age poems

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Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,
Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work,
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk,

Cristina

© Robert Browning

I.She should never have looked at me
If she meant I should not love her!
There are plenty ... men, you call such,
I suppose ... she may discover

From 'Pauline'

© Robert Browning

O God, where does this tendthese 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 rule

Popularity

© Robert Browning

Stand still, true poet that you are!
I know you; let me try and draw you.
Some night you'll fail us: when afar
You rise, remember one man saw you,
Knew you, and named a star!

Saul

© Robert Browning

``Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew
``On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue
``Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild beat
``Were now raging to torture the desert!''

Evelyn Hope

© Robert Browning

I.Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,

Bishop Blougram's Apology

© Robert Browning

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs.
No deprecation,--nay, I beg you, sir!
Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know,
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out,
We'd see truth dawn together?--truth that peeps
Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done,

Women And Roses

© Robert Browning

I dream of a red-rose tree.
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?

The Englishman In Italy

© Robert Browning

(PIANO DI SORRENTO.)Fortu, Frotu, my beloved one,
Sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet!
I was sure, if I tried,

The Italian In England

© Robert Browning

That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the countryside,

Love Among The Ruins

© Robert Browning

IWhere the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep

The Welsh Marches

High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Islanded in Severn stream;
The bridges from the steepled crest
Cross the water east and west.

The Poet And His Book

Down, you mongrel, Death!
Back into your kennel!
I have stolen breath
In a stalk of fennel!

Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!

I know I might have lived in such a way
As to have suffered only pain:
Loving not man nor dog;
Not money, even; feeling

The Death Of Autumn

When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,