96 ordspråk av Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Elizabeth Barrett Browning föddes den 6 marts 1806 och dog den 29 juni 1861 - engelsk skaldinna
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How many desolate creatures on the earth have learnt the simple dues of fellowship and social comfort, in a hospital.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes

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

An ignorance of means may minister To greatness, but an ignorance of aims Make it impossible to be great at all.

He said true things, but called them by wrong names.

At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading is not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.

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?

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.

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.

What was he doing, the great god Pan, / Down in the reeds by the river? / Spreading ruin and scattering ban, / Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, / And breaking the golden lilies afloat / With the dragon-fly on the river.

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!

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!

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.''

Jag säger dig, hopplös sorg är lidelselös;
Endast män som inte tror på förtvivlan, halvlärda i ångest, slår genom midnattsluften uppåt mot Guds tron i högljutt tillträde av skrik och förebråelser.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air beat upward to god's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach

Förgrämlighet

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

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