“I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind...”

“After all, my erstwhile dear,My no longer cherished,Need we say it was not love,Just because it perished?”

“Be to her, Persephone,All the things I might not be;Take her head upon your knee.She that was so proud and wild,Flippant, arrogant and free,She that had no need of me,Is a little lonely childLost in Hell,—Persephone,Take her head upon your knee;Say to her, “My dear, my dear,It is not so dreadful here.”

“Relaxing me from head to feetLove masters me, the bitter sweetO'er thy limbs breathing;Yea, Eros now, the god born blindSweeps my soul like the mountain windThrough the oaks seething.”

“I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.”

“And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with youall through my life?-sharing my fire, my bed,Sharing-oh, worst of all things!-the same head?-And, when I feed myself, feeding you too?”

“Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. ”