#Americans #Women
The day was hotter than words can… So hot the jelly-fish wouldn’t jel… The halibut went all to butter, And the catfish had only force to… A faint sea-mew - aye, though some…
THE darkest wood that the north-w… Hath its balsamum and its silverli… Its violet interspace. The bitterest sea that the wan moo… Hath its hushful archipelagoes,
THE cup, the ruby cup Whence anguish drips, At last is lifted up Against our lips. Though we, till seas run dry,
THIS tattered catechism weaves a… Invoking from the Long Ago a chil… Who deemed her fledgling soul so s… She practised with a candle-flame… Burning small fingers, that would…
I. In South Africa Over the lonesome African plain The stars look down, like eyes of… A bumping ride across gullies and… Now a grumble and now a jest,
OUR neighbor of the undefended bo… Friend of the hundred years of pea… Fellow adventurer on the enchanted… Of the New World, must not the pa… Our hearts for this wide anguish o…
WHAT sudden voice peals to the C… To Finland and the bitter Caspian… To those Siberian prisons whither… Shall seek as to a shrine, that mu… Divine word Liberty? Impetuous
THREE steps there are our human… The first is Force. The savage struggled to it from th… And still it is our last, ashamed… Above that jagged stretch of red-v…
SWEET are the manners of the woo… Our only old society, Where all the folk are glad and go… In unrebuked variety. Within this gentle commonweal
WILD Europe, red with Woden’s d… On fire with Loki’s hate, more sa… Beasts that we shame by likening t… Was it toward this the toiling cen… Was it for this the Reign of Love…
For the Reunion of the Bates Fam… FAR away on the sunny levels Where Kent lies drowsing beside t… Where over the foxglove as over th… The gray gull sails, is our ancien…
A WHIFF of forest scent, Balsam and fern, Won from dreary mood My heart’s return, From its discontent,
THESE palms weave shadows of del… But the truant heart flies forth To birch-boles glistening more tha… In the forests of the North.
THOUGH the winds but stir on th… Of hemlock and pungent pine, All the whispering woodland tones Gossip of things divine,— Why God is gray in the granite ro…
What fragrant-footed comer Is stepping o’er my head? Behold, my queen! the Summer! Who deems her warriors dead. Now rise, ye knights of many fight…