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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
Pain
Use
Love
Bane
World
Cruelty
Vain
Bitter
Fruit
Cold
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As the moths around a taper, As the bees around a rose, As the gnats around a vapour, So the spirits group and close Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.
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Light tomorrow with today!
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Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.
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Many a fervid man writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones.
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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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Every wish Is like a prayer--with God.
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Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.
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The man, most man, works best for men: and, if most man indeed, he gets his manhood plainest from his soul.
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Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love, thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
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Eyes of gentianellas azure, Staring, winking at the skies.
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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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Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
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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 least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
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The exchange of sympathy for gratitude is the most princely thing!
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I would not be a rose upon the wall A queen might stop at, near the palace-door, To say to a courtier, Pluck that rose for me, It's prettier than the rest. O Romney Leigh! I'd rather far be trodden by his foot, Than lie in a great queen's bosom.
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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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I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
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My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
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There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!
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