Elizabeth Barrett Browning

But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.

And kings crept out again to feel the sun.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers— And that cannot stop their tears.

"Yes!" I answered you last night; "No!" this morning, Sir, I say! Colours, seen by candle-light, Will not look the same by day.

And I said in underbreath — All our life is mixed with death, — And who knoweth which is best? And I smiled to think God's greatness Flowed around our incompleteness, — Round our restlessness, His rest.

O the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.

Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o’ the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man.

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so Who art not missed by any that entreat.

Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy dead in silence like to death; Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet—

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

By thunders of white silence.

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving;