Robert Browning

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away.

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

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?

Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beast's; God is, they are, Man partly is, and wholly hopes to be.

How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!

On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.

A minute's success pays the failure of years.

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure.

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

Ignorance is not innocence but sin.

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?

Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!