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And that dismal cry rose slowly And sank slowly through the air, Full of spirit's melancholy And eternity's despair And they heard the words it said,- Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!
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
Air
Dismal
Dead
Sank
Full
Melancholy
Heard
Slowly
Words
Despair
Spirit
Rose
Great
Cry
Eternity
More quotes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
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I cannot speak In happy tones the tear drops on my cheek Show I am sad But I can speak Of grace to suffer with submission meek, Until made glad.
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If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.
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The soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,And placed it by thee on a golden throne,-- And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
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Too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.
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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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For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
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Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!
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Of writing many books there is no end.
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Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
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No man can be called friendless who has God and the companionship of good books.
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The plague of gold strikes far and near.
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The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
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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.
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Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candle light...I love thee with the breath,smiles,t ears,of all my life.
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A grave, on which to rest from singing?
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For me, my heart, that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who giveth His Beloved, sleep.
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The denial of contemporary genius is the rule rather than the exception. No one counts the eagles in the nest, till there is a rush of wings and lo! they are flown.
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Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning