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It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

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She seemed a compound of the autumn leaves and the winter sunshine ...

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What is nobler," she mused, turning over the photographs, "than to be a woman to whom every one turns, in sorrow or difficulty?

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Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each...more

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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

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Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.

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The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

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To evade such temptations is the first duty of the poet. For as the ear is the antechamber to the soul, poetry can adulterate and destroy more surely ...more

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For it has come about, by the wise economy of nature, that our modern spirit can almost dispense with language; the commonest expressions do, since no...more

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A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means sig...more

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My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

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Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a...more

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And there he would lie all day long on the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry, till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, when he had found t...more

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They came to her, naturally, since she was a woman, all day long with this and that; one wanting this, another that; the children were growing up; she...more

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She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad! She could have done it differently of course; the colour could have been thinned a...more