Great Poems by American Women: An Anthology (Dover Thrift Editions)
"To My Dear and Loving Husband" and "Before the Birth of One of Her Children," written by America's first poet of note, Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672), appear here, along with "On Being Brought from Africa to America" and "On Imagination," by Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784), America's first great black woman poet. Selections also include more than a dozen beloved works by Emily Dickinson-"There's a certain slant of light," "I heard a fly buzz when I died," and "My life closed twice before its close," among others-as well as masterly verses by Hilda Doolittle, Gwendolyn Brooks, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Amy Lowell, Emma Lazarus, and numerous lesser-known authors.
A superb introduction to America's women poets, this engaging collection offers an inexpensive and rewarding resource for students, teachers, and all lovers of fine poetry. Includes 4 selections from the Common Core State Standards Initiative: "A Bird Came Down the Walls," "The New Colossus," "Because I Could Not Stop for Death," and "On Being Brought from Africa to America."
that gave the name you bear Unblamed amid the flowers, from year to year. The tawny lily, flecked with jetty studs, Pard-like, and dropping through long, pendent buds, Her purple anthers; nor the poppy, bowed In languid sleep, enfolding in a cloud Of drowsy odors her too fervid heart, Pierced by the day-god’s barbed and burning dart; Nor the swart sunflower, her dark brows enrolled With their broad carcanets of living gold,— A captive princess, following the car Of her proud conqueror;
was appointed by the U.S. government to investigate the condition of the Mission Indians of California. My Lighthouses At westward window of a palace gray, Which its own secret still so safely keeps That no man now its builder’s name can say, I lie and idly sun myself to-day, Dreaming awake far more than one who sleeps, Serenely glad, although my gladness weeps. I look across the harbor’s misty blue, And find and lose that magic shifting line Where sky one shade less blue meets sea, and
sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light. “Go! your lover lives,” cried Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring tonight!” Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, All his bright young life before him, ’neath the darkening English sky. Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet, Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, “Darling, you
outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, “You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly!” “I do not want to fly,” said he, “I only want to squirm!” And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: “I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!” O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this,— The creature madly climbing back Into
almost ripe, smothered in straw? Why not let the pears cling to the empty branch? All your coaxing will only make a bitter fruit— let them cling, ripen of themselves, test their own worth, nipped, shrivelled by the frost, to fall at last but fair with a russet coat. Or the melon— let it bleach yellow in the winter light, even tart to the taste— it is better to taste of frost— the exquisite frost— than of wadding and of dead grass. For this beauty, beauty without strength, chokes