Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Let no one till his death
Be called unhappy. Measure not the work
Until the day's out read more

Let no one till his death
Be called unhappy. Measure not the work
Until the day's out and the labour done.

O rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale, read more

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.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead.
She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed,--
read more

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead.
She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed,--
And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden-close;
Her tears, to the wind-flower,--his blood, to the rose.

And there my little doves did sit
With feathers softly brown
And glittering eyes that showed their read more

And there my little doves did sit
With feathers softly brown
And glittering eyes that showed their right
To general Nature's deep delight.

Who so loves believes the impossible.

Who so loves believes the impossible.