Elizabeth Barrett Browning Quotes

When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.

Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.

I, who thought to sink, was caught up into love, and taught the whole of life in a new rhythm.

It is difficult to get rid of people when you once have given them too much pleasure.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental.

Behold me! I am worthyOf thy loving, for I love thee!

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

In your patience ye are strong.

Since when was genius found respectable?

The large white owl that with eye is blind, That hath sate for years in the old tree hollow, Is carried away in a gust of wind.

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?

Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed. But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest!

A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.

Never say No when the world says Aye.

A grave, on which to rest from singing?

Mountain gorses, do ye teach us. . . .That the wisest word man reachesIs the humblest he can speak?

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

O pusillanimous Heart, be comfortedAnd, like a cheerful traveller, take the roadSinging beside the hedge.

I wish I were the lily's leaf To fade upon that bosom warm, Content to wither, pale and brief, The trophy of thy paler form.

We can't separate our humanity from our poetry.

He who breathes deepest lives most.

Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?

Get leave to work In this world,--'tis the best you get at all.

True knowledge comes only through suffering.

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

Too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.

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.

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

I, who had had my heart full for hours, took advantage of an early moment of solitude, to cry in it very bitterly. Suddenly a little hairy head thrust itself from behind my pillow into my face, rubbing its ears and nose against me in a responsive agitation, and drying the tears as they came.

His ears were often the first thing to catch my tears.

O brave poets, keep back nothing; Nor mix falsehood with the whole! Look up Godward! speak the truth in Worthy song from earnest soul! Hold, in high poetic duty, Truest Truth the fairest Beauty.

How joyously the young sea-mewLay dreaming on the waters blue,Whereon our little bark had thrownA little shade, the only one;But shadows ever man pursue.

What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.

Sing, seraph with the glory! heaven is high.Sing, poet with the sorrow! earth is low.The universe's inward voices cry"Amen" to either song of joy and woe.Sing, seraph, poet! sing on equally!

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play.

Eyes of gentianellas azure,Staring, winking at the skies.

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?

Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

Yet how proud we are,In daring to look down upon ourselves!

For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.

XI I sang his name instead of song; Over and over I sang his name: Backward and forward I sang it along, With my sweetest notes, it was still the same! I sang it low, that the slave-girls near Might never guess, from what they could hear, That all the song was a name.

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