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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
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
Men
Access
Reproach
Beats
Throne
Despair
Thrones
Grief
Anguish
Air
Midnight
Passionless
Taught
Hopeless
Shrieking
Half
Loud
Incredulous
Tell
Beat
Upward
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Life, struck sharp on death, Makes awful lightning.
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Light tomorrow with today!
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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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Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
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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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truth outlives pain, as the soul does life.
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A woman's always younger than a man at equal years.
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I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, Write!
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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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Or from Browning some Pomegranate, which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
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The exchange of sympathy for gratitude is the most princely thing!
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The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.
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The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
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Beloved, let us live so well our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work.
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Many a fervid man writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones.
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The music soars within the little lark, And the lark soars.
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An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.
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If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?
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May the good God pardon all good men.
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Sleep on, Baby, on the floor, Tired of all the playing, Sleep with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in! On your curls' full roundness stand Golden lights serenely-- One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning