I Worked With Patience Which Means Almost

A Grave, On Which To Rest From Singing?

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

Yes, I Answered You Last Night; No, This Morning, Sir, I Say: Colors Seen By Candle-light Will Not Look The Same By Day.

Like To Write? Of Course, Of Course I Do. I Seem To Live While I Write - It Is Life, For Me.

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.