Augusta Davies Webster

(30 January 1837 - 5 September 1894 / Dorset, England)

Augusta Davies Webster Poems

1. A Castaway 1/3/2003
2. Birds Sing I Love You, Love 1/3/2003
3. Medea In Athens 1/3/2003
4. Circe 1/3/2003
5. Young Laughters, And My Music! 1/3/2003
6. A Song Of A Spring-Time 4/2/2010
7. A Soul In Prison 1/3/2003
8. A Bird And Flower Upon The Tree 4/2/2010
9. Day Is Dead, And Let Us Sleep 4/2/2010
10. Farewell 4/2/2010
11. The Happiest Girl In The World 1/3/2003
12. An Inventor 1/3/2003
13. Dear Love, Good-Night 4/2/2010
14. Autumn’s Warnings 4/2/2010
15. Disenchanted 4/2/2010
16. Beyond The Shadow 4/2/2010
17. White Rose And Red 4/2/2010
18. Deserted 1/3/2003
19. Belated 4/2/2010
20. Dearest, This One Day We Own 4/2/2010
21. Choosing 4/2/2010
22. Waiting, Waiting 4/2/2010
23. Tell Thee Truth, Sweet; No 4/2/2010
24. Hark The Sky-Lark In The Cloud 4/2/2010
25. Betrothed 4/2/2010
26. A Coarse Morning 4/2/2010
27. A Comrade 4/2/2010
28. A Preacher 1/3/2003
29. A Summer Mood 4/2/2010
30. Love's Mourner 1/3/2003
31. A Dilettante 1/3/2003
32. Where Found Love His Yesterday? 4/2/2010
33. Her Memories 4/2/2010
34. While The Woods Were Green 4/2/2010
35. Mother And Daughter- Sonnet Sequence 4/2/2010
36. The Violet And The Rose 4/2/2010
37. In An Almshouse 1/3/2003
38. My Loss 4/2/2010
39. Yu-Pe-Ya’s Dirge For Tse-Ky 4/2/2010
40. Young May Sat Fainting And Chill 4/2/2010
Best Poem of Augusta Davies Webster

A Castaway

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,...

Read the full of A Castaway

Circe

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;
and the smooth waves grow sullen in the gloom
and wear their threatening purple; more and more
the plain of waters sways and seems to rise
convexly from its level of the shores;
and low dull thunder rolls along the beach:

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