#Americans #Women
I think, no matter where you stray… That I shall go with you a way. Though you may wander sweeter land… You will not soon forget my hands, Nor yet the way I held my head,
If I don’t drive around the park, I’m pretty sure to make my mark. If I’m in bed each night by ten, I may get back my looks again, If I abstain from fun and such,
... So, praise the gods, Catullus… And let me tend you this advice, m… Take any lover that you will, or m… Except a poet. All of them are qu… It’s just the same– a quarrel or a…
And now I have another lad! No longer need you tell How all my nights are slow and sad For loving you too well. His ways are not your wicked ways,
Carlyle combined the lit’ry life With throwing teacups at his wife, Remarking, rather testily, “Oh, stop your dodging, Mrs. C.!”
Why is it, when I am in Rome, I’d give an eye to be at home, But when on native earth I be, My soul is sick for Italy? And why with you, my love, my lord…
So take my vows and scatter them t… Who swears the sweetest is no more… And say no kinder words than these… “Ever she longed for peace, but wa… And thus they are, whose silly fem…
When I consider, pro and con, What things my love is built upon— A curly mouth; a sinewed wrist; A questioning brow; a pretty twist Of words as old and tried as sin;
With you, my heart is quiet here, And all my thoughts are cool as ra… I sit and let the shifting year Go by before the windowpane, And reach my hand to yours, my dea…
Here in my heart I am Helen; I’m Aspasia and Hero, at least. I’m Judith, and Jael, and Madame… I’m Salome, moon of the East. Here in my soul I am Sappho;
Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt… And drink your rushing words with… And paint my mouth for you a fragr… And trace your brows with tutored… When you rehearse your list of lov…
It costs me never a stab nor squir… To tread by chance upon a worm. “Aha, my little dear,” I say, “Your clan will pay me back one da…
Long I fought the driving lists, Plume a-stream and armor clanging; Link on link, between my wrists, Now my heavy freedom’s hanging.
I cannot rest, I cannot rest In straight and shiny wood, My woven hands upon my breast— The dead are all so good! The earth is cool across their eye…
Now this must be the sweetest plac… From here to heaven’s end; The field is white with flowering… The birches leap and bend, The hills, beneath the roving sun,