Quotes from Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Some people always sigh in thanking God.

We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake...

A little sunburnt by the glare of life.

If you desire faith, then you have faith enough.

And each man stands with his face in the light of his own drawn sword. Ready to do what a hero can.

Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God;

Life, struck sharp on death,Makes awful lightning.

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.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

I should not dare to call my soul my own.

He lives most life whoever breathes most air.

Therefore to this dog will I,Tenderly not scornfully,Render praise and favor.

A woman's always younger than a man of equal years.

God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers and thrust the thing we have prayed for in our face, like a gauntlet with a gift in it.

How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.

Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

No man can be called friendless when he has God and the companionship of good books.

The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, to put on when you're weary -- or a stool. To stumble over and vex you... curse that stool! Or else at best, a cushion, where you lean and sleep, and dream of something we are not, but would be for your sake. Alas, alas! This hurts most, this... that, after all, we are paid the worth of our work, perhaps.

Think, In mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence.

This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed -- and not for pay? Absurd -- or insincere?