English Poet, Wife of Robert Browning
Elizabeth Browning, fully Elizabeth Barrett Browning
English Poet, Wife of Robert Browning
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed and worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright, let temple burn, or flax; an equal light leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed: and love is fire. And when I say at need I love thee ... mark! ... I love thee -- in thy sight I stand transfigured, glorified aright, with conscience of the new rays that proceed out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low in love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures who love God, God accepts while loving so. And what I feel, across the inferior features of what I am, doth flash itself, and show how that great work of Love enhances Nature's.
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.
You forget too much that every creature, female as the male, stands single in responsible act and thought, as also in birth and death.
You smell a rose through a fence: if two should smell it, what matter?
You take a pink, you dig about its roots and water it, and so improve it to a garden-pink, but will not change it to a heliotrope.
You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.
Women know the way to rear up children (to be just); they know a simple, merry, tender knack of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, and stringing pretty words that make no sense, and kissing full sense into empty words; which things are corals to cut life upon, although such trifles.
World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but pain is not the fruit of pain.
Worn, gray olive-woods, which seem the fittest foliage for a dream.
Yes, I answered you last night, No, this morning, Sir, I say. Colours seen by candle-light, will not look the same by day.
Yet half the beast is the great god Pan, to laugh, as he sits by the river, making a poet out of a man. The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain-- for the reed that grows never more again as a reed with the reeds of the river.
Yet here's eglantine, here's ivy!--take them as I used to do thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, and tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.
Here's ivy! â€” take them, as I used to do thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, and tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints,â€”I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!â€”and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
If thou must love me, let it be for nought except for love's sake only. Do not say I love her for her smile â€”her look â€”her way of speaking gently,â€”for a trick of thought that falls in well with mine, and certes brought a sense of pleasant ease on such a day - For these things in themselves, Beloved, may be changed, or change for thee,â€”and love, so wrought, may be unwrought so. Neither love me for thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,â€” a creature might forget to weep, who bore thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
Life, struck sharp on death, makes awful lightning. His last word was, 'Loveâ€“' 'Love, my child, love, love!'â€“(then he had done with grief) 'Love, my child.' Ere I answered he was gone, and none was left to love in all the world.
Nay, if there's room for poets in the world a little overgrown, (I think there is) their sole work is to represent the age, their age, not Charlemagne's, â€” this live, throbbing age, that brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, aspires, and spends more passion, more heroic heat, betwixt the mirrors of its drawing-rooms, than Roland with his knights, at Roncesvalles.
Our Euripides the human, with his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common till they rose to meet the spheres.
Souls are dangerous things to carry straight through all the spilt saltpetre of this world.
The essence of all beauty, I call love, the attribute, the evidence, and end, the consummation to the inward sense of beauty apprehended from without, I still call love.