Elizabeth Barrett Browning ( 10 of 96 )
We get no good
By being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits--so much help
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We get no good
By being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits--so much help
By so much reading. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,
Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth--
'Tis then we get the right good from a book.
God keeps a niche
In Heaven, to hold our idols; and albeit
He brake them to our read more
God keeps a niche
In Heaven, to hold our idols; and albeit
He brake them to our faces, and denied
That our close kisses should impair their white,--
I know we shall behold them raised, complete,
The dust swept from their beauty, glorified,
New Memnons singing in the great God-light.
A worthless woman! mere cold clay
As all false things are! but so fair,
She takes the read more
A worthless woman! mere cold clay
As all false things are! but so fair,
She takes the breath of men away
Who gaze upon her unaware:
I would not play her larcenous tricks
To have her looks!
God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers,
And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face,
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God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers,
And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face,
A gauntlet with a gift in 't.
Since when was genius found respectable?
Since when was genius found respectable?
. . . Purple lilies Dante blew
To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
. . . Purple lilies Dante blew
To a larger bubble with his prophet breath.
Wall must get the weather stain
Before they grow the ivy.
Wall must get the weather stain
Before they grow the ivy.
Knowledge by suffering entereth,
And life is perfected by Death.
Knowledge by suffering entereth,
And life is perfected by Death.
Get leave to work
In this world,--'tis the best you get at all.
Get leave to work
In this world,--'tis the best you get at all.
By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out read more
By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out sight,
Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir,
To put on when you're weary--or a stool
To tumble over and vex you . . . curse that stool!
Or else at best, a cushion where you lean
And sleep, and dream of something we are not,
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas!
This hurts most, this . . . that, after all, we are paid
The worth of our work, perhaps.
