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.
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.
If you desire faith, then you have faith enough.
We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination. . . down our earth to rake.
Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll- Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year? Say thou dost love me, love me, love me-toll The silver iterance!-only minding, Dear, To love me also in silence, with thy soul.
And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
A child's kiss Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad; A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense Of service which thou renderest.
For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.
Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.
And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair; And they heard the words it said,- "Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!"
So mothers have God's license to be missed.
A good neighbor sometimes cuts your morning up to mince-meat of the very smallest talk, then helps to sugar her bohea at night with your reputation.
There are nettles everywhere, but smooth, green grasses are more common still; the blue of heaven is larger than the cloud.
Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.
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.
He who breathes deepest lives most.
Many a crown Covers bald foreheads.
Never say No when the world says Aye.
Don't get me wrong-painting's all right. But now that we have photography, what's the point?
Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But, there, The silver answer rang,. . . 'Not Death, but Love.
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!