Woman in a Field

Shakespeare wrote powerful sonnets which touch the soul. This one looks into the way we portray ourselves. A woman’s face with nature’s own hand paintedHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith shifting change as is false women’s fashion;An eye more bright than theirs, lessRead More →

Wild nights! Wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds To a heart in port, Done with the compass, Done with the chart. Rowing in Eden! Ah! the sea! Might I but moor To-night in thee! ~ Emily Dickinson 1830 – 1836Read More →

A Wounded Deer — leaps highest — I’ve heard the Hunter tell — ‘Tis but the Ecstasy of death — And then the Brake is still! The Smitten Rock that gushes! The trampled Steel that springs! A Cheek is always redder Just where the Hectic stings! Mirth is the MailRead More →

I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep The day was warm, and winds were prosy I said, “Twill keep” I woke – and chide my honest fingers, The Gem was gone And now, an Amethyst remembrance Is all I own ~ Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)Read More →

There is a lady sweet and kind, Was never a face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I’ll love her till I die. Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why,Read More →

Accept, dear girl, this little token, And if between the lines you seek, You’ll find the love I’ve often spoken The love my dying lips shall speak. Our little ones are making merry O’er am’rous ditties rhymed in jest, But in these words (though awkward very) The genuine article’s expressed.Read More →

My love is like to ice, and I to fire: How come it then that this her cold is so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat? Or how comes it that my exceeding heat Is not allayed by herRead More →

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory — Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed; And so thy thoughts when thou are gone, Love itself shall slumber on. ~ Percy ByssheRead More →