How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
Anybody is qualified, according to everybody, for giving opinions upon poetry. It is not so in chemistry and mathematics. Nor is it so, I believe, in whist and the polka. But then these are more serious things.
At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.
What is art but the 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?
A good neighbor sometimes cuts your morning up to mince-meat of the very smallest talk, then helps to sugar her bohea at night with your reputation.
Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.
The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.
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.
In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were lov’d, us’d — well enough, I think, we’ve far’d, my heart and I.
For none can express thee, though all should approve thee.I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.