#Americans #Women #XIXCentury #XXCentury
BOOK FIRST. ALL valor died not on the plains… Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine t… To sing of deeds as dauntless and… As e’er lent luster to a warrior’s…
This is the place that I love the… A little brown house, like a groun… Hid among grasses, and vines, and… Summer retreat of the birds and be… The tenderest light that ever was…
To Miss Eva Russell. The spring time is deaf to our ple… The meadows are brown as can be. The hilltops are bleak and unlovel… No thrush sits and sings on the tr…
When I pass from earth away, Palsied though I be and gray, May my spirit keep so young That my failing, faltering tongue Frames that prayer so dear to me
I have been down in the darkest wa… Deep, deep down where no light cou… Alone with the things that are ben… The mindless things that are cruel… I have fought with fear in my wave…
All the aim of life is just Getting back to God. Spirit casting off its dust, Getting back to God. Every grief we have to bear
The Muse said, Let us sing a litt… Wherein no hint of wrong, No echo of the great world need, o… Shall mar the strain. Lock fast the swinging portal of t…
Friend of my youth, let us talk of… Of the long lost golden hours. When “Winter” meant only Christma… And “Summer” wreaths of flowers. Life has grown old, and cold, my f…
We will lay our summer away, my fr… So tenderly lay it away. It was bright and sweet to the ver… Like one long, golden day. Nothing sweeter could come to me,
In the still jungle of the senses… A tiger soundly sleeping, till one… A bold young hunter chanced to com… ‘How calm,’ he said, ‘that splendi… I long to rouse him into swift sur…
Whoever you are as you read this, Whatever your trouble or grief, I want you to know and to heed thi… The day draweth near with relief. No sorrow, no woe is unending,
Sometimes I feel so passionate a… For spiritual perfection here belo… This vigorous frame, with healthfu… Seems my determined foe, So actively it makes a stern resis…
To sin by silence, when we should… Makes cowards out of men. The hum… Has climbed on protest. Had no vo… Against injustice, ignorance and l… The Inquisition yet would serve t…
GOOD-BYE to the cradle, the dea… The rude hand of Progress has thr… No more to its motion o’er sleep’s… Our play-weary wayfarers peacefull… No more by the rhythm of slow-movi…
Let us clear a little space, And make Love a burial-place. He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me. Growing heavier, day by day,