Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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.

She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.

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.

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

Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.

Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.

At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.

Unless you can feel when the song is done_x000D_ _x000D_ No other is sweet in its rhythm;_x000D_ _x000D_ Unless you can feel when left by one_x000D_ _x000D_ That all men else go with him.

The devil's most devilish when respectable.

Get work, get work; Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.

O rose, who dares to name thee?_x000D_ _x000D_ No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,_x000D_ _x000D_ But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,_x000D_ _x000D_ Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

All actual heroes are essential men, And all men possible heroes.

So mothers have God's license to be missed.

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

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!

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

My future will not copy my fair past, I wrote that once. And, thinking at my side my ministering life-angel justified the word by his appealing look upcast to the white throne of God.

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.

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.