Woman

You are a dear, sweet girl,
God bless you and keep you -
Wish I could afford to do so.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCXII. Riddles.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Kisses

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CXCII. Riddles.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DCXXVI. Relics.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Woman

Here's to the ladies, the good, young ladies;
But not too good, for the good die young,
And we want no dead ones.
And here's to the good old ladies,
But not too old, for we want no dyed ones.

Unknown

Woman.

O Woman, lovely Woman, magic flower,
What loves, what pleasures in thy graces meet!
Thou blushing blossom, dropt from Eden's bower;
Thou fair exotic, delicately sweet!--
Thy tender beauty Mercy wrung from heaven,
A drop of honey in a world of woe;
From Wisdom's pitying hand thy sweets were given,
That man a glimpse of happiness might know.
-If destitute of Woman, what were life?
Could wealth and wine thy loveliness bestow,
And give the bliss that centres in a wife,
That makes one loth to leave this heaven below
Pains they might soothe, and cares subdue awhile,
But soon the soul would sigh for 'witching Woman's smile.

John Clare

Woman.

Ah, woman!--in this world of ours,
    What boon can be compared to thee?--
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
    And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own!

My mother!--At that holy name,
    Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame--
A feeling, which, for years of fame,
    I would not, could not, crush!
And sisters!--ye are dear as life;
But when I look upon my wife,
    My heart-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother--sisters--wife and friend!

Yes, woman's love is free from guile,
    And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
    ...

George Pope Morris

Individuality.

        O yes, I love you, and with all my heart;
    Just as a weaker woman loves her own,
        Better than I love my beloved art,
    Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone,
        My king, my master. Since I saw your face
        I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.

        I am as weak as other women are:
    Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb;
        Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far.
    Sometimes I think there is not space or room
        In all the earth for such a love as mine,
        And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.

        I know that your desertion or neglect
    Could break my heart, as women's hearts do break.
        If my wan days had nothing to expect
    From your love's splen...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Virgin Of Bethlehem.

Virgin of Bethlehem! spouse of the Holy One!
    Star of the pilgrim on life's stormy sea!
Humbler thy lot was than this world's most lowly one,
    List to the prayers that we offer to thee!

Not for the joys that this false earth bestoweth,
    Empty and fleeting as April sunshine,
But for the grace that from holiness floweth,
    Grace, purest Mother, that always was thine.

Charity ardent, and zeal that abounded,
    Thine was the will of thy Father above,
Thus thy life's fervor so strangely confounded
    Cold hearts that mocked at religion's pure love.

Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,
    Bowed thee, unmurm'ring, beneath sorrow's rod;
Spirit of purity ever indwelling
    Made thee the Temple and Mother of God.

These are th...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

A Woman in Hospital

I know it all . . . I know.
For I am God. I am Jehovah, He
Who made you what you are; and I can see
The tears that wet your pillow night by night,
When nurse has lowered that too-brilliant light;
When the talk ceases, and the ward grows still,
And you have doffed your will:
I know the anguish and the helplessness.
I know the fears that toss you to and fro.
And how you wrestle, weariful,
With hosts of little strings that pull
About your heart, and tear it so.
I know.

Lord, do You know
I had no time to put clean curtains up;
No time to finish darning all the socks;
Nor sew clean frilling in the children's frocks?
And do You know about my Baby's cold?
And how things are with my sweet three- year-old?
Will Jane remember right
Their cough ...

Fay Inchfawn