Quote

Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love, thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Age: 55 †
Born: 1806
Born: March 6
Died: 1861
Died: June 30
Essayist
Pamphleteer
Poet
Screenwriter
Translator
Durham
England
Mrs. Browning
Elizabeth Barrett Barrett
Elizabeth Barrett-Browning
Elizaveta Barrett Brauning
Creatures
Dry
Wiping
Comfort
Creature
Evermore
Lose
Pity
Thine
Loses
Thou
Bore
Forget
Dear
Weep
Might
Eternity
Thereby
Long
Sake
Bores
Love
Neither
Cheeks
Mayst

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The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.
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And I must bear What is ordained with patience, being aware Necessity doth front the universe With an invincible gesture.
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Every wish Is like a prayer--with God.
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I, who thought to sink, was caught up into love, and taught the whole of life in a new rhythm.
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You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
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But I love you, sir: And when a woman says she loves a man, The man must hear her, though he love her not.
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I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
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No man can be called friendless who has God and the companionship of good books.
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But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.
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Very whitely still The lilies of our lives may reassure Their blossoms from their roots, accessible Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer Growing straight out of man's reach, on the hill. God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.
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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
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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!
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A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.
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Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving Unless you can die when the dream is past — Oh, never call it loving!
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Get work, get work Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.
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Purple lilies Dante blew To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
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The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.
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Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!
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Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.
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He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
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