Elizabeth Barrett Browning Quotes

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What is art, But life upon the larger scale, the higher,...

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, . . . 'Not Death, but Love.'

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
For 'tis not in mere death that men die most.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor's done.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, To put on when you

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
A woman cannot do the thing she ought, which means whatever perfect thing she can, in life, in art, in science, but she fears to let the perfect action take her part and rest there: she must prove what she can do before she does it, -- prate of woman's rights, of woman's mission, woman's function, till the men (who are prating, too, on their side) cry, A woman's function plainly is... to talk. Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed!

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Eve is a twofold mystery.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The place is all awave with trees, Limes, myrtles, purple-beaded, Acacias having drunk the lees Of the night-dew, fain headed, And wan, grey olive-woods, which seem The fittest foliage for a dream.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
And lips say God be pitiful, who never said, God be praised.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Books succeed, and lives fail.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Books, books, books had found the secret of a garret-room piled high with cases in my father's name; Piled high, packed large, --where, creeping in and out among the giant fossils of my past, like some small nimble mouse between the ribs of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there at this or that box, pulling through the gap, in heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, the first book first. And how I felt it beat under my pillow, in the morning's dark. An hour before the sun would let me read! My books!

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers and thrust the thing we have prayed for in our face, like a gauntlet with a gift in it.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
It is not merely the likeness which is precious... but the association and the sense of nearness involved in the thing... the fact of the very shadow of the person lying there fixed forever! It is the very sanctification of portraits I think -- and it is not at all monstrous in me to say that I would rather have such a memorial of one I dearly loved, than the noblest Artist's work ever produced.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
A good neighbor sometimes cuts your morning up to mince-meat of the very smallest talk, then helps to sugar her bohea at night with your reputation.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Hurt a fly! He would not for the world: he's pitiful to flies even. Sing, says he, and tease me still, if that's your way, poor insect.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need; by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath. Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I think it frets the saints in heaven to see How many desolate creatures on the earth Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship And social comfort, in a hospital.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, Let no one be called happy till his death; to which I would add, Let no one, till his death be called unhappy.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
If you desire faith, then you have faith enough.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The devil's most devilish when respectable.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
What is art but life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Whoso loves, believes the impossible.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Think, In mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Since when was genius found respectable?

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
No man can be called friendless when he has God and the companionship of good books.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning