Elizabeth Barrett Browning Quotes - Page 8

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

I worked with patience which means almost power.

The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.

Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!

And I must bear What is ordained with patience, being aware Necessity doth front the universe With an invincible gesture.

The tyrant should take heed to what he doth, Since every victim-carrion turns to use, And drives a chariot, like a god made wroth, Against each piled injustice.

Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!

And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And gone my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth His beloved sleep.

Sleep on, Baby, on the floor, Tired of all the playing, Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in! On your curls' full roundness stand Golden lights serenely-- One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly.

Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.

The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.

Capacity for joy Admits temptation.

Thou large-brain'd woman and large-hearted man.

We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits--so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth-- 'Tis then we get the right good from a book.

Of writing many books there is no end.

She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.

The Holy Night We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem; The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Toward the newly Born: The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonied hearing rung The strange sweet angel-tongue: The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh, and gold These baby hands were impotent to hold: So let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state. Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow But thinking of a wreath, . . . I like such ivy; bold to leap a height 'Twas strong to climb! as good to grow on graves As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too (And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

For poets (bear the word) Half-poets even, are still whole democrats.

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.

So mothers have God's license to be missed.