Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(6 March 1806 – 29 June 1861 / Durham / England)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning Poems

1. Paraphrase on Anacreon: Ode to the Swallow 5/20/2015
2. Love 4/21/2015
3. Flush Or Faunus 1/5/2015
4. Stanzas On The Death Of Lord Byron 3/24/2012
5. Sonnet Xxviii 12/31/2002
6. Sonnet Xxxix 12/31/2002
7. Xv 5/13/2001
8. Xxviii 5/13/2001
9. Xxii 5/13/2001
10. Sonnet Xvii: My Poet, Thou Canst Touch 1/3/2003
11. Sonnet Xxx 12/31/2002
12. Xxix 5/13/2001
13. Xxvii 5/13/2001
14. V 5/13/2001
15. Viii 5/13/2001
16. Xxxii 5/13/2001
17. Sonnet Xx 12/31/2002
18. Xxxvi 5/13/2001
19. Sonnet Xxiii 12/31/2002
20. Xxxvii 5/13/2001
21. Sonnet Xxxi 12/31/2002
22. Xxiii 5/13/2001
23. Sonnet Xxxviii 12/31/2002
24. Sonnet Xxxiv 12/31/2002
25. Xx 5/13/2001
26. Xix 5/13/2001
27. Xxxiv 5/13/2001
28. Xxiv 5/13/2001
29. Xli 5/13/2001
30. Xxx 5/13/2001
31. Sonnet Xvi 12/31/2002
32. Sonnet Xxxiii 12/31/2002
33. Xxxv 5/13/2001
34. Sonnet Xxvi: I Lived With Visions 1/3/2003
35. Sonnet Xxxvii 12/31/2002
36. Xliv 5/13/2001
37. Xxxiii 5/13/2001
38. Xxxix 5/13/2001
39. Xxxi 5/13/2001
40. Sonnet Xxvii 12/31/2002
Best Poem of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How Do I Love Thee?

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 level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love with a 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 ...

Read the full of How Do I Love Thee?

Sonnet Xli: I Thank All

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,
With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all
Who paused a little near the prison-wall
To hear my music in its louder parts
Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's
Or temple's occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's
Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

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