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Best Famous Robert Browning Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Robert Browning poems. This is a select list of the best famous Robert Browning poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Robert Browning poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of robert browning poems.

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Written by Jorge Luis Borges | Create an image from this poem

Browning Decides To Be A Poet

 in these red labyrinths of London
I find that I have chosen
the strangest of all callings,
save that, in its way, any calling is strange.
Like the alchemist who sought the philosopher's stone in quicksilver, I shall make everyday words-- the gambler's marked cards, the common coin-- give off the magic that was their when Thor was both the god and the din, the thunderclap and the prayer.
In today's dialect I shall say, in my fashion, eternal things: I shall try to be worthy of the great echo of Byron.
This dust that I am will be invulnerable.
If a woman shares my love my verse will touch the tenth sphere of the concentric heavens; if a woman turns my love aside I will make of my sadness a music, a full river to resound through time.
I shall live by forgetting myself.
I shall be the face I glimpse and forget, I shall be Judas who takes on the divine mission of being a betrayer, I shall be Caliban in his bog, I shall be a mercenary who dies without fear and without faith, I shall be Polycrates, who looks in awe upon the seal returned by fate.
I will be the friend who hates me.
The persian will give me the nightingale, and Rome the sword.
Masks, agonies, resurrections will weave and unweave my life, and in time I shall be Robert Browning.


Written by Walter Savage Landor | Create an image from this poem

To Robert Browning

 There is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sits alone
And see the praised far off him, far above.
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale No man hath walked along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse.
But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing; the breeze Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

A Light Woman

 I.
So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?— My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me? II.
My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net.
III.
When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just him To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim! IV.
And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead! V.
So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed.
VI.
The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face.
—You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space! VII.
For see, my friend goes shaling and white; He eyes me as the basilisk: I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.
VIII.
And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her—that, he comprehends— "One should master one's passions, (love, in chief) "And be loyal to one's friends!" IX.
And she,—she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; Just a touch to try and off it came; 'Tis mine,—can I let it fall? X.
With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist.
XI.
And I,—what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess.
XII.
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own: Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone! XIII.
One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true: But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you? XIV.
Well, any how, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand!
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

Are You Content?

 I call on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent? Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff Set up the old stone Cross, That red-headed rector in County Down, A good man on a horse, Sandymount Corbets, that notable man Old William pollexfen, The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back, Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay In some good company, I who have always hated work, Smiling at the sea, Or demonstrate in my own life What Robert Browning meant By an old hunter talking with Gods; But I am not content.
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

Robert Browning

 How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, 
In winding graveyard pathways underground,
For Browning's lineage! What if men have found
Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll
Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? 
Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned 
Through all the world, -- the poets laurel-crowned
With wreaths from which the autumn takes no toll.
The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire, The golden globe of Shakespeare's human stage, The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, The tragic mask of wise Euripides.


Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

On the Death of Robert Browning

 He held no dream worth waking; so he said,
He who stands now on death's triumphal steep,
Awakened out of life wherein we sleep
And dream of what he knows and sees, being dead.
But never death for him was dark or dread; "Look forth," he bade the soul, and fear not.
Weep, All ye that trust not in his truth, and keep Vain memory's vision of a vanished head As all that lives of all that once was he Save that which lightens from his word; but we, Who, seeing the sunset-colored waters roll, Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea, Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is whole, And life and death but shadows of the soul.