#Australians #Lesbian #Women
The sun’s my fire. Golden, from a magnificence of blu… Should be its hue. But woolly clouds, Like boarding-house old ladies, co…
O sweet and fair! These words are… O sweet and fair! A year ago I’ld… Some better words of praise Than sweet and fair. O sweet and fair, and weak, and mo…
I came to live in Sophia Street, In a little house in Sophia Stree… With an inch of floor Between door and door And a yard you’d measure in childr…
‘I used to have dozens of handkerc… Of finest lawn. I used to have silk shirts and fin… He’s like a faun This darling out-at-elbows Irish…
Sometimes I can see When I teach Half my children talk Each to each. Then I almost wish
He has a fairy wife. He does not know her. She is the heart of the storm, Of the clouds that lower. And as the clouds are torn
You may have other loves, Red mouths to kiss. Why should you lose That loveliness for this? No loveliness of mine
My darling lies down in her soft w… And she laughs at me. Her laughter has flushed her pale… Her eyes dance with glee. My darling lies close in her warm…
Somebody brought in lilac, Lilac after rain. Isn’t it strange, belovéd of mine You’ll not see it again? Lilac glad with the sun on it
Ay, ay, ay, the lilies of the gard… With red threads binding them and… These shall be her symbols, for sh… Holy in her maidenhood and very fu… Ay, ay, ay, for she is very girlis…
I’m not his wife. I am his paramo… His wayside love, picked up in jou… Rose of the hedgerows; fragrant, t… Me down beside the ditch, a droope… Some country boy may stick into hi…
Sometimes I watch you, mark your… Your grave brow over-weighted with… Your mouth’s straight line—details… That all aloofness in your aspect… And yet when in the dark down from…
Every night I hurry home to see If a letter’s there from you to me… Every night I bow my head and say… ‘There’s no word at all from him t…
Sometimes I wish that I were Hel… And wise as Pallas, That I might have most royal gift… In love’s sweet chalice. Then I reflect my dear love is no…
She is not of the fireside, My lovely love; Nor books, nor even a cradle, She bends above. No, she is bent with lashes,