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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.
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
Caused
Apples
Ground
Garden
Tree
Eden
Trouble
Pair
Apple
Pairs
More quotes by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers?
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The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
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Children use the fist until they are of age to use the brain.
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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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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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The large white owl that with eye is blind, That hath sate for years in the old tree hollow, Is carried away in a gust of wind.
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If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?
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For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
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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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You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter?
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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
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Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
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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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You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
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We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.
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I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, Write!
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We can't separate our humanity from our poetry.
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And lilies are still lilies, pulled By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.
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I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
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Eyes of gentianellas azure, Staring, winking at the skies.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning