Elizabeth Barrett Browning ( 10 of 96 )
Brazen helm of daffodillies,
With a glitter toward the light.
Purple violets for the mouth,
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Brazen helm of daffodillies,
With a glitter toward the light.
Purple violets for the mouth,
Breathing perfumes west and south;
And a sword of flashing lilies,
Holden ready for the fight.
Life treads on life, and heart on heart;
We press too close in church and mart
To read more
Life treads on life, and heart on heart;
We press too close in church and mart
To keep a dream or grave apart.
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.
Wall must get the weather stain
Before they grow the ivy.
Wall must get the weather stain
Before they grow the ivy.
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.
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.
Every wish
Is like a prayer--with God.
Every wish
Is like a prayer--with God.
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.
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.
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.
