A Quote by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But,
there,
The silver answer rang, . . . 'Not Death, but Love. — © Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, . . . 'Not Death, but Love.
I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 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.
Love, I thought, is stronger than death or the fear of death. Only by it, by love, life holds together and advances.
There is nothing there - no soul - there is only this question about after death. The question has to die now to find the answer - your answer; not my answer - because the question is born out of the assumption, the belief, that there is something to continue after death.
Now he understood. This was death. Death was a silence that gave back no answer.
I've always said that the artist dies twice. And the first death is the hardest which is the career death, the creative death. The physical death is an inevitability.
Through the air floated only important words, and Flajsman said to himself that love has but one true measure, and that is death. At the end of true love is death, and only the love that ends in death is love.
Now death is death! and yet is not one death Another death? Stabbing is not the same As shooting! Would you say a strangled man Was drown'd? The end is one, the means are many, And there the difference lies!
In the garden the door is always open into the "holy" - growth, birth, death. Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle, and in the garden we are never far away from death, the fertilizing, good, creative death.
Death darkens his eyes, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings: Live so, my Love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home.
Someone's killed 100,000 people. We're almost going, "Well done! You killed 100,000 people? You must get up very early in the morning! I can't even get down the gym. Your diary must look odd: 'Get up in the morning, death, death, death, death, death, death, death - lunch - death, death, death - afternoon tea - death, death, death - quick shower ...' "
The call of death is a call of love. Death can be sweet if we answer it in the affirmative, if we accept it as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.
"Death by love is fairer by far than death by illness", said Amenhotep III.
I am stigmatized by a living death in which real death holds no terrors for me.
I believe the death of Bobby Kennedy was in many ways the death of decency in America. I think it was the death of manners and formality, the death of poetry and the death of a dream.
But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time, But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue, But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love, O perfect life in perfect labor writ, O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest, -- What IF or YET, what mole, what flaw, what lapse, What least defect or shadow of defect, What rumor, tattled by an enemy, Of inference loose, what lack of grace Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's -- Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee, Jesus, good Paragon, Thou Crystal Christ?
Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing.
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