Elizabeth Barrett Browning was one of the most respected poets of the Victorian era.
Let this list of 53 quotations by the English poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning lead you to an inspirational day. Recharge yourself with motivational life, love, death sayings, and satisfy your hunger for a better life.
What are the best Elizabeth Barrett Browning quotes?
We've made this hand-picked collection of quotes to show you what is Elizabeth Barrett Browning truly willing to say and leave for generations. Whether an inspirational quote or a motivational message about giving your best, we can all benefit from the wisdom, captured within these words.
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell by reiteration chiefly.
For tis not in mere death that men die most.
Light tomorrow with today!
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty, and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed.
But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest!
The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.
A woman's always younger than a man of equal years.
A good neighbor sometimes cuts your morning up to mince-meat of the very smallest talk, then helps to sugar her bohea at night with your reputation.
This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, 'Let no one be called happy till his death;' to which I would add, 'Let no one, till his death, be called unhappy.'
What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed -- and not for pay? Absurd -- or insincere?
An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.
God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers and thrust the thing we have prayed for in our face, like a gauntlet with a gift in it.
Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?
At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading is not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.
Books, books, books 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!
A woman cannot do the thing she ought, which means whatever perfect thing she can, in life, in art, in science, but she fears to let the perfect action take her part and rest there: she must prove what she can do before she does it, -- prate of woman's rights, of woman's mission, woman's function, till the men (who are prating, too, on their side) cry, A woman's function plainly is... to talk. Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed!
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, Let no one be called happy till his death; to which I would add, Let no one, till his death be called unhappy.
The place is all awave with trees,Limes, myrtles, purple-beaded,Acacias having drunk the leesOf the night-dew, fain headed,And wan, grey olive-woods, which seemThe fittest foliage for a dream.
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.
And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I love thee to the level of every day'sMost quiet need; by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faithI love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath.Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
Hurt a fly! He would not for the world: he's pitiful to flies even.
Sing, says he, and tease me still, if that's your way, poor insect.
The man, most man,Works best for men, and, if most men indeed,He gets his manhood plainest from his soul:While, obviously, this stringent soul itselfObeys our old rules of development;The Spirit ever witnessing in ours,And Love, the soul of soul, within the soul,Evolving it sublimely.
What is art but life upon the larger scale, the higher.
When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?
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.
We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes;
Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state; Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause; Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax; Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy; Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs; And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men!
Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor's done.
It is not merely the likeness which is precious.
.. but the association and the sense of nearness involved in the thing... the fact of the very shadow of the person lying there fixed forever! It is the very sanctification of portraits I think -- and it is not at all monstrous in me to say that I would rather have such a memorial of one I dearly loved, than the noblest Artist's work ever produced.
My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.