BROWNING

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

All poetry [is] putting the infinite within the finite.

Let me but live my life from year to year, with forward face and unreluctant soul.

Look not down but up!

Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there

Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

What I aspired to be
And was not, comforts me.