Robert Browning

Autumn wins you best by this, its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

Autumn wins you best by this, its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land,
Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land,
Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.

What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up,
And be discharged, and straight wound up anew?
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What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up,
And be discharged, and straight wound up anew?
No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets;
May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.

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

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

But how carve way i' the life that lies before,
If bent on groaning ever for the past?

But how carve way i' the life that lies before,
If bent on groaning ever for the past?