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World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane but is not the fruit of pain.
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
World
Cruelty
Vain
Bitter
Fruit
Cold
Pain
Use
Love
Bane
More quotes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
What frightens me is that men are content with what is not life at all.
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My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
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It is difficult to get rid of people when you once have given them too much pleasure.
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Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.
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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!
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Wall must get the weather stain Before they grow the ivy.
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What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?
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A woman's always younger than a man at equal years.
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When God helps all the workers for His world, The singers shall have help of Him, not last.
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Who so loves believes the impossible.
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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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Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
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And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
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If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.
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Every wish Is like a prayer--with God.
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That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow But thinking of a wreath, . . . I like such ivy bold to leap a height 'Twas strong to climb! as good to grow on graves As twist about a thyrsus pretty too (And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.
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I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, Write!
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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.
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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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Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
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