Zitate von Robert Browning
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Robert Browning:
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Informationen über Robert Browning
Dichter (England, 1812 - 1889).
Robert Browning · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum
Robert Browning wäre heute 211 Jahre, 11 Monate, 25 Tage oder 77.427 Tage alt.
Geboren am 07.05.1812
Gestorben am 12.12.1889
Sternzeichen: ♉ Stier
Unbekannt
Weitere 207 Zitate von Robert Browning
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And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs? Do I carry the moon in my pocket?
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And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? - That's if ye carve my epitaph aright.
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And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.
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And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech. Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the coldo' the moon. 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, But not the stars; the stars came otherwise.
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And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is-the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.
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And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
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Any nose May ravage with impunity a rose.
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At last awake From life, that insane dream we take For waking now.
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Autumn wins you best by this, its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay.
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Ay, dead! and were yourself alive, good Fitz, How to return your thanks would pass my wits. Kicking you seems the common lot of curs- While more appropriate greeting lends you grace: Surely to spit there glorifies your face- Spitting from lips once sanctified by Hers.
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Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
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Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
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Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things.
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But, thanks to wine-lees and democracy, We've still our stage where truth calls spade a spade!
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Dante, who loved well because he hated, Hated wickedness that hinders loving.
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Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. 'Childe Roland to the DarkTower came.'
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Dear dead women, with such hair, too-what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
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Death has done all death can.
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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, And body gets its sop and holds its noise And leaves soul free a little.
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Everyone soon or late comes round by Rome.