How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach
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. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.
I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you
Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.
Earth’s crammed with heaven…But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.
No man can be called friendless who has God and the companionship of good books.
Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God.
My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.
Our Euripides the human,With his droppings of warm tears,and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.
Better farPursue a frivolous trade by serious means,Than a sublime art frivolously.
I am one who could have forgotten the plague, listening to Boccaccio’s stories; and I am not ashamed of it.
It is rather whenWe gloriously forget ourselves, and plungeSoul-forward, headlong, into a book’s profound,Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth–‘Tis then we get the right good from a book.
In this abundant earth no doubtIs little room for things worn out:Disdain them, break them, throw them by!And if before the days grew roughWe once were lov’d, us’d — well enough,I think, we’ve far’d, my heart and I.
And I breathe large at home. I drop my cloak,Unclasp my girdle, loose the band that tiesMy hair…now could I but unloose my soul!We are sepulchred alive in this close world,And want more room.
The picture of helpless indolence she calls herselfsublimely helpless and impotentI had done living I thoughtWas ever life so like death before? My face was so close against the tombstones, that there seemed no room for tears.
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fineSad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine?A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.
The wisest word man reaches is the humblest he can speak.
And yet, because I love thee, I obtainFrom that same love this vindicating grace,To live on still in love, and yet in vain
Yes,” I answered you last night;”No,” this morning, sir, I say.Colours seen by candlelightWill not look the same by day.
The heart doth recognise thee,Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,—-Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.
You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me – my heart was full when you came here today. Henceforward I am yours for everything.
With 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.
Just for a handful of silver he left us Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat.
God’s in His Heaven – All’s right with the world!
Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it “Italy.”
Love doesn’t make the world go round Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.
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.
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.
And each man stands with his face in the light of his own drawn sword. Ready to do what a hero can.
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.
A woman’s always younger than a man of equal years.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
The year’s at the Spring And day’s at the morn Morning’s at seven The hillside’s dew-pearled The lark’s on the wing The snail’s on the thorn: God’s in his Heaven – All’s right with the world!
Many a fervid man writes books as cold and flat as graveyard stones.
If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love’s sake only.
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
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.’
You were made perfectly to be loved – and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.
What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?
Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.