Light tomorrow with today!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
Who so loves believes the impossible.
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 it.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.
And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.
How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!
If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.
For tis not in mere death that men die most.
If you desire faith, then you have faith enough.
He said true things, but called them by wrong names.
A woman is always younger than a man at equal years.
At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading is not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.
Since when was genius found respectable?
World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.
He lives most life whoever breathes most air.
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.'
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?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white.
