Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise,
I barter for curl upon that mart.

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise,
I barter for curl upon that mart.

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell, By reiteration chiefly.

Men get opinions as boys learn to spell, By reiteration chiefly.

Books, books, books!
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in read more

Books, books, books!
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in my father's name;
Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read!
My books!
At last, because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.

And lilies are still lilies, pulled
By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.

And lilies are still lilies, pulled
By smutty hands, though spotted from their white.

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I read more

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.