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.
Elizabeth Barrett BrowningRead
Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
Interpretation
The quote reflects the idea of discovering the deep emotions and shared humanity that lie beneath the surface of appearances.
In this evocative quote, Elizabeth Barrett Browning uses the metaphor of a pomegranate, which when cut reveals its rich, blood-tinted interior, to illustrate the complexities of human emotion and the shared experiences that define our humanity. The symbolism of the pomegranate, often associated with life and fertility, conveys how beneath the external layers, there is a profound and vibrant essence that connects us all through our struggles and joys.
In practice
In a discussion about the depth of human experiences at a literary event.
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.
Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
America is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres.
My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.
The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Tonight I feel the stars are out_x000D_ to use me for target practice.
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