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A good neighbor sometimes cuts your morning up to mince-meat of the very smallest talk, then helps to sugar her bohea at night with your reputation.
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
Talk
Smallest
Funny
Sugar
Helping
Meat
Night
Reputation
Sometimes
Helps
Good
Neighbor
Mince
Cutting
Morning
Cuts
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You're something between a dream and a miracle.
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I love you for the part of me that you bring out.
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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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A grave, on which to rest from singing?
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The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
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Light tomorrow with today!
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OF writing many books there is no end And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.
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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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My future will not copy my fair past, I wrote that once. And, thinking at my side my ministering life-angel justified the word by his appealing look upcast to the white throne of God.
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And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.
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A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.
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It was not the apple on the tree but the pair on the ground that caused the trouble in the garden of Eden.
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The music soars within the little lark, And the lark soars.
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God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in it.
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I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
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You believe In God, for your part?--that He who makes Can make good things from ill things, best from worst, As men plant tulips upon dunghills when They wish them finest.
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I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, Write!
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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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Love that endures, from life that disappears!
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Get work, get work Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.
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