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Robert Browning

Paracelsus

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Robert Browning is one of the most significant Victorian Poets and, of course, English Poetry.
Much of his reputation is based upon his mastery of the dramatic monologue although his talents encompassed verse plays and even a well-regarded essay on Shelley during a long and prolific career.
He was born on May 7th, 1812 in Walmouth, London. Much of his education was home based and Browning was an eclectic and studious student, learning several languages and much else across a myriad of subjects, interests and passions.
Browning's early career began promisingly. The fragment from his intended long poem Pauline brought him to the attention of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and was followed by Paracelsus, which was praised by both William Wordsworth and Charles Dickens. In 1840 the difficult Sordello, which was seen as willfully obscure, brought his career almost to a standstill.
Despite these artistic and professional difficulties his personal life was about to become immensely fulfilling. He began a relationship with, and then married, the older and better known Elizabeth Barrett. This new foundation served to energise his writings, his life and his career.
During their time in Italy they both wrote much of their best work. With her untimely death in 1861 he returned to London and thereafter began several further major projects.
The collection Dramatis Personae (1864) and the book-length epic poem The Ring and the Book (1868–69) were published and well received; his reputation as a venerated English poet now assured.
Robert Browning died in Venice on December 12th, 1889.
Ova knjiga je trenutno nedostupna
130 štampanih stranica
Godina izdavanja
2017
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Citati

  • stealthisemailje citiraoпре 5 година
    truth we have lived carelessly and well.
    Paracelsus.
    And shall, my perfect pair! — each, trust me, born
    For the other; nay, your very hair, when mixed,
    Is of one hue. For where save in this nook
    Shall you two walk, when I am far away,
    And wish me prosperous fortune?
  • stealthisemailje citiraoпре 5 година
    laugh now!
    Fancy the crickets, each one in his house,
    Looking out, wondering at the world — or best,
    Yon painted snail with his gay shell of dew,
    Travelling to see the glossy balls high up
    Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps.
  • stealthisemailje citiraoпре 5 година
    Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less
    Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow down,
    Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit,
    That apple-tree with a rare after-birth
    Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among!
    Then for the winds — what wind that ever raved
    Shall vex that ash which overlooks you both,
    So proud it wears its berries?
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