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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
Great
Cry
Eternity
Air
Dismal
Dead
Sank
Full
Melancholy
Heard
Slowly
Words
Despair
Spirit
Rose
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I love you for the part of me that you bring out.
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The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
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When we first met and loved, I did not build Upon the event with marble. . . .
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Pan is dead! great Pan is dead! Pan, Pan is dead!
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A grave, on which to rest from singing?
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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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You're something between a dream and a miracle.
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We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.
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Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.
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Behold me! I am worthy Of thy loving, for I love thee!
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Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
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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
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I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, Write!
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Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers?
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Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
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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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Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal.
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Every wish Is like a prayer--with God.
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Whatever's lost, it first was won.
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We can't separate our humanity from our poetry.
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