Elizabeth Barrett Browning (née Moulton-Barrett, /ˈbraʊnɪŋ/; 6 March 1806 – 29 June 1861) was an English poet of the Victorian era, popular in Britain and the United States during her lifetime.
What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.
For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.
A great acacia, with its slender trunk And overpoise of multitudinous leaves. (In which a hundred fields might spill their dew And intense verdure, yet find room enough) Stood reconciling all the place with green.
The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play.
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road Singing beside the hedge.
I f thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say, I love her for her smile. . . her look. . . her way Of speaking gently. . . 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-and love so wrought, May be unwrought so.
The man, most man, Works best for men, and, if most men indeed, He gets his manhood plainest from his soul: While, obviously, this stringent soul itself Obeys our old rules of development; The Spirit ever witnessing in ours, And Love, the soul of soul, within the soul, Evolving it sublimely.
If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.
What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?
Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!
Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
The great chasm between the thing I say, and the thing I would say, would be quite dispiriting to me, in spite even of such kindnesses as yours, if the desire did not master the despondency.
Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I. . . . In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.
All actual heroes are essential men, And all men possible heroes.
The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.
Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.
He who breathes deepest lives most.
Behold me! I am worthy Of thy loving, for I love thee!
Many a crown Covers bald foreheads.
A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.