A Bird With A Broken Wing Was

There Was A Dull Pang Of Regret Because It Was Not The Kiss Of Love Which Had Inflamed Her, Because It Was Not Love Which Had Held This Cup Of Life To Her Lips.

She Was Flushed And Felt Intoxicated With The Sound Of Her Own Voice And The Unaccustomed Taste Of Candor. It Muddled Her Like Wine, Or Like A First Breath Of Freedom.

She Missed Him The Days When Some Pretext Served To Take Him Away From Her, Just As One Misses The Sun On A Cloudy Day Without Having Thought Much About The Sun When It Was Shining.

Have You Ever Heard The Earth Breath?

I'm Going To Pull Myself Together For A While And Think-try To Determine What Character Of A Woman I Am; For, Candidly, I Don't Know. By All The Codes Which I Am Acquainted With, I Am A Devilishly Wicked Specimen Of The Sex. But Some Way I Can't Convince Myself That I Am. I Must Think About It.