I give the fight up let there be an end A privacy an obscure nook for me, I want to be forgotten even by God.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. Furthermore, I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

In this abundant earth no doubts little room for things worn out:Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were love'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've farhad, my heart and I.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I tell you hopeless grief is passionless, That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight airboat upward to God’s throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertnessIn souls, as countries, laity silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy dead in silence like to death— Most like a monumental statue Stein everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet;If it could weep, it could arise and go.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young;And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung shadow across me. Straightaway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--Guess now who holds thee?--Death, I said, But, there, The silver answer rang,--Not Death, but Love.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

It is rather whence gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth--'Ti's then we get the right good from a book.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Just for a handful of silver he left us Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Let no one 'til his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work Until the day's out and the labor done: Then bring your gauges.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning