I Wished Critics Would Judge Me As

There Is, I Am Convinced, No Picture That Conveys In All Its Dreadfulness, A Vision Of Sorrow, Despairing, Remediless, Supreme. If I Could Paint Such A Picture, The Canvas Would Show Only A Woman Looking Down At Her Empty Arms.

At Heart, He Could Not Abide Sense In Women: He Liked To See Them As Silly, As Light-headed, As Vain, As Open To Ridicule As Possible; Because They Were Then In Reality What He Held Them To Be, And Wished Them To Be,--inferior: Toys To Play With, To Amuse A Vacant Hour And To Be Thrown Away.

Oh, I Am Not Going To Die, Am I? He Will Not Separate Us, We Have Been So Happy.

Her Coming Was My Hope Each Day, Her Parting Was My Pain; The Chance That Did Her Steps Delay Was Ice In Every Vein.

Children Can Feel, But They Cannot Analyse Their Feelings; And If The Analysis Is Partially Effected In Thought, They Know Not How To Express The Result Of The Process In Words.