A Woman's Pity Sometimes Makes Her Mad.

I Heard An Angel Speak Last Night/and He Said, "write!"

I Should Not Dare To Call My Soul My Own.

And Wilt Thou Have Me Fashion Into Speech The Love I Bear Thee, Finding Words Enough, And Hold The Torch Out, While The Winds Are Rough, Between Our Faces, To Cast Light On Each? - I Dropt It At Thy Feet. I Cannot Teach My Hand To Hold My Spirits So Far Off From Myself--me--that I Should Bring Thee Proof In Words, Of Love Hid In Me Out Of Reach. Nay, Let The Silence Of My Womanhood Commend My Woman-love To Thy Belief, - Seeing That I Stand Unwon, However Wooed, And Rend The Garment Of My Life, In Brief, By A Most Dauntless, Voiceless Fortitude, Lest One Touch Of This Heart Convey Its Grief.

The Soul's Rialto Hath Its Merchandise, I Barter For Curl Upon That Mart.

There's Nothing Great Nor Small, Has Said A Poet Of Our Day, Whose Voice Will Ring Beyond The Curfew Of Eve And Not Be Thrown Out By The Matin's Bell.