Elizabeth Barrett Browning Quotes - Page 7

We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.

Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.

Some people always sigh in thanking God.

We have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts.

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.

God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it.

Free men freely work: Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.

She lived, we'll say, A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all (But that she had not lived enough to know)

The denial of contemporary genius is the rule rather than the exception. No one counts the eagles in the nest, till there is a rush of wings; and lo! they are flown.

For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.

Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal.

Many a fervid man writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones.

We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes; Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state; Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause; Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax; Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy; Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs; And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men!

Pray, pray, thou who also weepest,-- And the drops will slacken so; Weep, weep--and the watch thou keepest, With a quicker count will go. Think,--the shadow on the dial For the nature most undone, Marks the passing of the trial, Proves the presence of the sun.

When God helps all the workers for His world, The singers shall have help of Him, not last.

You believe In God, for your part?--that He who makes Can make good things from ill things, best from worst, As men plant tulips upon dunghills when They wish them finest.

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.

My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.

Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.

Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.

The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,And placed it by thee on a golden throne,-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

For none can express thee, though all should approve thee. I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

But I love you, sir: And when a woman says she loves a man, The man must hear her, though he love her not.