Life's Priestess.

All to herself a woman never sings
A happy song. Oh no! but it is so
As when the thrush has closed down his wings
Within the wood, and hears his hidden woe
From his own bill fill aisles of leaves, and go
About the wood and come to him again.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop was an American Roman Catholic nun and social worker. Born on May 20, 1851, in Lenox, Massachusetts, she was the daughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne, the famous novelist. After a failed marriage, Lathrop turned towards religious life and dedicated herself to caring for those with incurable cancer. She founded the Dominican Sisters of Hawthorne, and the community grew to operate several homes for cancer patients. She passed away on July 9, 1926.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Francie.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, Simple Poetry

Beyond Utterance.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, Simple Poetry

For Others.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, Simple Poetry

Morning Song.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Pride: Fate.

Lullaby on the wing
Of my song, O my own!
Soft airs of evening
Join my song's murmuring tone.

Lullaby, O my love!
Close your eyes, lake-like clear;
Lullaby, while above
Wake the stars, with heaven near.

Lullaby, sweet, so still
In arms of death; I alone
Sing lullaby, like a rill,
To your form, cold as a stone.

Lullaby, O my heart!
Sleep in peace, all alone;
Night has come, and your part
For loving is wholly done!

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Maiden May.

Maiden May sat in her bower,
In her blush rose bower in flower,
Sweet of scent;
Sat and dreamed away an hour,
Half content, half uncontent.

"Why should rose blossoms be born,
Tender blossoms, on a thorn
Though so sweet?
Never a thorn besets the corn
Scentless in its strength complete.

"Why are roses all so frail,
At the mercy of the gale,
Of a breath?
Yet so sweet and perfect pale,
Still so sweet in life and death."

Maiden May sat in her bower,
In her blush rose bower in flower,
Where a linnet
Made one bristling branch the tower
For her nest and young ones in it.

"Gay and clear the linnet trills;
Yet the skylark only, thrills
Heaven and earth
When he breasts the height, and fills
Height and depth ...

Christina Georgina Rossetti

The Singer

Years since (but names to me before),
Two sisters sought at eve my door;
Two song-birds wandering from their nest,
A gray old farm-house in the West.

How fresh of life the younger one,
Half smiles, half tears, like rain in sun!
Her gravest mood could scarce displace
The dimples of her nut-brown face.

Wit sparkled on her lips not less
For quick and tremulous tenderness;
And, following close her merriest glance,
Dreamed through her eyes the heart's romance.

Timid and still, the elder had
Even then a smile too sweetly sad;
The crown of pain that all must wear
Too early pressed her midnight hair.

Yet ere the summer eve grew long,
Her modest lips were sweet with song;
A memory haunted all her words
Of clover-fields and singing...

John Greenleaf Whittier

The White Maiden And The Indian Girl.

"Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell,
See the palace home in which I dwell,
With its lofty walls and casements wide,
And objects of beauty on every side;
Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss
To dwell in a home as bright as this?"

"Has my pale-faced sister never seen
My home in the pleasant forest green,
With the sunshine weaving its threads of gold
Through the boughs of elm and of maples old,
And soft green moss and wild flowers sweet,
What carpet more fitting for maidens' feet?"

"Well, see these diamonds of price untold,
These costly trinkets of burnished gold,
With rich soft robes - my daily wear -
These graceful flower-wreaths for my hair;
And now, at least, thou must frankly tell
Thou would'st like such garb and jewels well."

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Sounds From The Convent.

"Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast and demure."

            -- [Milton]


White-robed nun, I pray thee tell me
    Whatsoe'er my life shall be;
Thou of God art purely chosen,
    Ne'er can I be like to thee.

There is sunlight in the shadow
    Of the lives we live below;
There is starlight in the darkness
    Of the night of human woe.

Yet I pray thee, sweet-voiced woman,
    Tell me of thy life and thee;
Can the soul to heaven given
    Yield its secrets unto me?

Nevermore the earth shall claim thee,
    Only lilies bloom for thee;
All the world is full of beauty
    That thy eyes may never see.

On the hill the daisies springing,
    Lift their heads to greet the morn;
Yet tho...

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

The Spinster

I

Here are the orchard trees all large with fruit;
And yonder fields are golden with young grain.
In little journeys, branchward from the nest,
A mother bird, with sweet insistent cries,
Urges her young to use their untried wings.
A purring Tabby, stretched upon the sward,
Shuts and expands her velvet paws in joy,
While sturdy kittens nuzzle at her breast.

O mighty Maker of the Universe,
Am I not part and parcel of Thy World,
And one with Nature?    Wherefore, then, in me
Must this great reproductive impulse lie
Hidden, ashamed, unnourished, and denied,
Until it starves to slow and tortuous death?
I knew the hope of spring-time; like the tree
Now ripe with fruit, I budded, and then bloomed;
We laughed together through the young May morns;

Ella Wheeler Wilcox