Quotes from Elizabeth Barrett Browning

What frightens me is that men are content with what is not life at all.

Unless you can feel when the song is done No other is sweet in its rhythm; Unless you can feel when left by one That all men else go with him.

The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.

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

For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.

Books are men of higher stature.

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.

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

But so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

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

But I love you, sir: And when a woman says she loves a man, The man must hear her, though he love her not.

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.

Yes, I answered you last night; No, this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

Nor myrtle--which means chiefly love: and love Is something awful which one dare not touch So early o' mornings.

The music soars within the little lark, And the lark soars.

And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.

In your patience ye are strong.

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

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

And I breathe large at home. I drop my cloak, Unclasp my girdle, loose the band that tiesMy hair...now could I but unloose my soul!We are sepulchred alive in this close world, And want more room.

The heart doth recognise thee, Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, —-Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is. For gift or grace, surpassing this-- He giveth His beloved sleep.