Augusta Davies Webster
Born in 1837, Webster was a prolific writer in every genre, a self-educated classical scholar, a professional poetry reviewer, an activist, and an educator. She began her literary career as a young girl and had published two volumes of poetry, two well-received translations of Aeschylus and Euripides, and a three-volume novel by the time she became a very active member of the London Suffrage Society in the 1860s. During the 1870s Webster continued to support suffrage for women and the women’s movement in general, as well as liberalism and individualism, in a series of essays that she wrote for the Examiner and later published as A Housewife’s Opinions. Beginning in 1879, she served two terms... more »
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Augusta Davies Webster Poems
Poor little diary, with its simple thoughts, its good resolves, its "Studied French an hour," "Read Modern History," "Trimmed up my grey hat," "Darned stockings," "Tatted," "Practised my new song,"
Birds Sing I Love You, Love
Birds sing "I love you, love" the whole day through, And not another song can they sing right; But, singing done with, loving's done with quite, The autumn sunders every twittering two.
A Song Of A Spring-Time
TOO rash, sweet birds, spring is not spring; Sharp winds are fell in east and north; Late blossoms die for peeping forth; Rains numb, frost
Medea in Athens
Dead is he? Yes, our stranger guest said dead-- said it by noonday, when it seemed a thing most natural and so indifferent as if the tale ran that a while ago
Young Laughters, and My Music!
Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now The voice can reach no blending minors near; 'Tis the bird's trill because the spring is here And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough;
The sun drops luridly into the west; darkness has raised her arms to draw him down before the time, not waiting as of wont till he has come to her behind the sea;
A Soul in Prison
(The Doubter lays aside his book.) "Answered a score of times." Oh, looked for teacher, is this all you will teach me? I in the dark
Not yet! I thought this time 'twas done at last, the workings perfected, the life in it;
FAREWELL: we two shall still meet day by day, Live side by side; But never more shall heart respond to heart.
A Bird and flower upon the tree
A bird and flower upon the tree, Sweet peony and oriole, Each of them a perfect soul,
The Happiest Girl in the World
A week ago; only a little week: it seems so much much longer, though that day is every morning still my yesterday; as all my life 'twill be my yesterday,
Dear love, good-night
DEAR love, good-night. And, tender sleep ,Seal up her lids like these drowsed flowers, To make day fair when they unclose.
I DID not think to love her. As we go We pluck a hedge-rose blushing in its sheath, Fresh, and at hand; and not the less we know
Alas, I thought this forest must be true, And would not change because of my changed eyes;
Comments about Augusta Davies Webster
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Poor little diary, with its simple thoughts,
its good resolves, its "Studied French an hour,"
"Read Modern History," "Trimmed up my grey hat,"
"Darned stockings," "Tatted," "Practised my new song,"
"Went to the daily service," "Took Bess soup,"
"Went out to tea." Poor simple diary!
and did I write it? Was I this good girl,
this budding colourless young rose of home?
did I so live content in such a life,
seeing no larger scope, nor asking it,
than this small constant round -- old clothes to mend,
new clothes to make, then go and say my prayers,
or carry soup,...