Robert Browning's Poetical Works: Pippa passes. King Victor and King Charles. The return of the Druses. A soul's tragedy

Smith, Elder, & Company, 1889
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Página 79 - All service ranks the same with God : If now, as formerly he trod Paradise, his presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can work — God's puppets, best and worst, Are we ; there is no last nor first.
Página 5 - O'er night's brim, day boils at last; Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim Where spurting and supprest it lay — For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve hours...
Página 23 - the close wood screen Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, Feeling for guilty thee and me: then broke The thunder like a whole sea overhead — Seb.
Página 46 - Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends, What the whole world except our love — my own, Own Phene ? But I told you, did I not, Ere night we travel for your land — some isle...
Página 46 - Here is a woman with utter need of me, — I find myself queen here, it seems ! How strange ! Look at the woman here with the new soul, Like my own Psyche, — fresh upon her lips Alit, the visionary butterfly, Waiting my word to enter and make bright, Or flutter off and leave all blank as first. This body had no soul before, but slept Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free From taint or foul with stain, as outward things Fastened their image on its passiveness : Now, it will wake, feel, live...
Página 64 - You'll love me yet! — and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June reared that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing. I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield — what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like. You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave's one violet: Your look? — that pays a thousand pains. What's death? You'll love me yet!
Página 6 - A mite of my twelve hours' treasure, The least of thy gazes or glances. (Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure) One of thy choices or one of thy chances, (Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure) — My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure, Then shame fall on Asoló, mischief on me!
Página 38 - Curved beewise o'er its bough ; as rosy limbs, Depending, nestled in the leaves ; and just From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang. But of the stuffs one can be master of, How I divined their capabilities ! From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk That yields your outline to the air's embrace, Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom ; Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure To cut its one confided thought clean out Of all the world. But marble ! — 'neath my tools...
Página 54 - I was put at the board-head, helped to all At first ; I rise up happy and content. God must be glad one loves his world so much. I can give news of earth to all the dead Who ask me...

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