#Americans #Women
I wish we might go gypsying one da… On a blue October morning Beneath a cloudless sky, When all the world’s a vibrant har… The winds o’ God have strung,
They do not know the awful tears w… The tender treasures that we keep… They could not be so still—our qui… In knowing this. They do not know what time we turn…
God send thee peace, Oh, great un… A world away, I pray that thou ma… Softly as on the Well-Belovèd’s b… Where ever in her wistful dreams t… At dawn my prayer is all for thee,…
My poplars are like ladies trim, Each conscious of her own estate; In costume somewhat over prim, In manner cordially sedate, Like two old neighbours met to cha…
Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh,… Filmy mists of pink and white abov… Lifting and drifting,—how my eyes… I’m staring at a dirty wall beyond… Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep…
We who in the old days—the easy da… Loitered in the distant lands—we k… When in far, foreign places, above… The sight of it, the might of it,… Our own flag, the one flag, it sti…
Though other eyes were turned to h… He turned to look in mine; Though others filled the cup abrim… He might not taste the wine. I am so glad my eyes were first
My father took me by the hand And led me home again; (He brought me in from sorrow As you’d bring a child from rain). The child’s place at the hearth-st…
A great king made a feast for Lov… And golden was the board and gold The hundred, wondrous gauds thereo… Soft lights like roses fell above Rare dishes exquisite and fine;
Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows, Whose pity is great therefore, The gift that thy children bring t… Is ever a sorrow more. Sure of thy dear compassion,
We are the keepers of that steadfa… that guides people’s course and de… Not ours the skill directing over… the might beams that blaze the pat… Ours but the hands that, serving,…
She came not into the Presence as… Crowned, white—robed and adoring,… She stood as a straight young sold… Who asks a boon of his captain in… She said: ‘Now have I stayed too…
She put her wedding-gown away As tenderly as one might close, With kissing lips and finger-tips, The petals of a rose Still held for the Belovèd’s sake…
Mothers of men—the words are good… Pride in the very sound of them, s… Why is it their faces haunt me, wi… Ever some dear thing vanished and… Mothers of Men?
I must be off where the green boug… Why should I linger to barter and… The mart may pay me’the mart may… I have had enough of the huckster’… The calm of the deep woods waits t…