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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
Use
Love
Bane
World
Cruelty
Vain
Bitter
Fruit
Cold
Pain
More quotes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat, Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
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Death forerunneth Love to win Sweetest eyes were ever seen.
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Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed. But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest!
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Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
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Who so loves believes the impossible.
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Never say No when the world says Aye.
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Whatever's lost, it first was won.
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For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
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Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
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I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, Write!
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Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!
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I would confide to you perhaps my secret profession of faith - which is ... which is ... that let us say and do what we please and can ... there is a natural inferiority of mind in women - of the intellect ... not by any means, of the moral nature - and that the history of Art and of genius testifies to this fact openly.
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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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When God helps all the workers for His world, The singers shall have help of Him, not last.
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The music soars within the little lark, And the lark soars.
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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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We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.
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The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
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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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Much of the possibility of being cheerful comes from the faculty of throwing oneself beyond oneself.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
