What is art but 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?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning -
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Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning -