Elizabeth Barrett Browning

By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out read more

By the way,
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out sight,
Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir,
To put on when you're weary--or a stool
To tumble over and vex you . . . curse that stool!
Or else at best, a cushion where you lean
And sleep, and dream of something we are not,
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas!
This hurts most, this . . . that, after all, we are paid
The worth of our work, perhaps.

Let no one till his death
Be called unhappy. Measure not the work
Until the day's out read more

Let no one till his death
Be called unhappy. Measure not the work
Until the day's out and the labour done.

Deep violets, you liken to
The kindest eyes that look on you,
Without a thought disloyal.

Deep violets, you liken to
The kindest eyes that look on you,
Without a thought disloyal.

He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life.

He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life.

That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
But thinking of a wreath, . . .
I read more

That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
But thinking of a wreath, . . .
I like such ivy; bold to leap a height
'Twas strong to climb! as good to grow on graves
As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.