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O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road Singing beside the hedge.
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
Like
Hedge
Traveller
Beside
Cheerful
Road
Singing
Take
Pusillanimous
Heart
Comforted
More quotes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
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And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain
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Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
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There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.
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Since when was genius found respectable?
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Free men freely work: Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.
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A grave, on which to rest from singing?
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The denial of contemporary genius is the rule rather than the exception. No one counts the eagles in the nest, till there is a rush of wings and lo! they are flown.
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Nosegays! leave them for the waking, Throw them earthward where they grew Dim are such, beside the breaking Amaranths he looks unto. Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
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Whatever's lost, it first was won.
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If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.
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Women know the way to rear up children (to be just). They know a simple, merry, tender knack of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, and stringing pretty words that make no sense. And kissing full sense into empty words.
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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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Never say No when the world says Aye.
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The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise, I barter for curl upon that mart.
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He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
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Every wish Is like a prayer--with God.
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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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Of writing many books there is no end.
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You're something between a dream and a miracle.
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