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I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

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
Tell
Passionless
Hopelessness
Hopeless
Grief

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O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat, Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
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Light tomorrow with today!
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And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.
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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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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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Much of the possibility of being cheerful comes from the faculty of throwing oneself beyond oneself.
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A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.
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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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Or from Browning some Pomegranate, which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
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And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.
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The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
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She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows.
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Souls are gregarious in a sense, but no soul touches another, as a general rule.
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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.
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Definition of Love: A score of zero in tennis. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears of all my life.
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The essence of all beauty, I call love.
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And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.
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Since when was genius found respectable?
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Of writing many books there is no end.
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Anybody is qualified, according to everybody, for giving opinions upon poetry. It is not so in chemistry and mathematics. Nor is it so, I believe, in whist and the polka. But then these are more serious things.
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