Biography of Robert Browning
The son of Robert Browning, a Bank of England clerk, and Sarah Anna Wiedemann, of Scottish-German descent, Browning received little formal education. His learning was gleaned mainly from his Father's library at home in Camberwell, South London, where he learnt something, with his Father's help, of Latin and Greek and also read Shelly, Byron and Keats. Though he attended lectures at the University of London in 1828, Browning left after only one session.
Apart from a visit to St Petersburg in 1834 and two visits to Italy in 1838 and 1844, Browning lived with his parents in London until his marriage of 1846. It was during this period that most of the plays and the earlier poems were written and, excepting Strafford, published at his family's expense.
After the secretly held marriage to Elizabeth Barrett in 1846, Browning and wife travelled to Italy where they were, apart from brief holidays in France and England, to spend most of their married life together. In 1849 the couple had a son, Robert 'Pen' Browning, and it was Elizabeth who, during this time, was most productive. After her death in 1861, Browning returned to England with his son, where he achieved popular acclaim for his Dramatis Personae and The Ring and the Book.
He spent the remainder of his life, excepting holidays in France, Scotland, Italy and Switzerland, in London where he wrote a number of dramatic poems, the two series of Dramatic Idylls (1879,1880) and poems on primarily classical subjects: Balaustion's Adventure (1871) and Aristophone's Apology (1875).
He died in Venice whilst holidaying in 1889 and was buried at Westminster Abbey.
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Robert Browning; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
Robert Browning Poems
My Last Duchess
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fr Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands
Life In A Love
Escape me? Never--- Beloved! While I am I, and you are you,
A Woman's Last Word
Let's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, ---Only sleep!
Take the cloak from his face, and at first Let the corpse do its worst! How he lies in his rights of a man!
A Pretty Woman
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers!
The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake:
Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came
My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
A Lovers' Quarrel
Oh, what a dawn of day! How the March sun feels like May! All is blue again After last night's rain,
A Light Woman
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?
A Grammarian's Funeral Shortly After The...
Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass;
Home Thoughts, From Abroad
Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware,
Bishop Blougram's Apology
NO more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk. A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith! We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. It's different, preaching in basilicas,
Andrea Del Sarto
But do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
Italian In England, The
That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,---
I made six days a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,