Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton was a famous British society beauty, feminist, social reformer, and author of the early and mid nineteenth century.
Youth and Marriage
Caroline was born in London, England to Thomas Sheridan and Caroline Henrietta Callander. Her father was an actor, soldier, and colonial administrator, and the son of the prominent Irish playwright and Whig statesman Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Her mother was Scottish, the daughter of a landed gentleman, Col. Sir James Callander of Craigforth and Lady Elizabeth MacDonnell, the sister of an Irish peer, Lord Antrim. Mrs. Sheridan authored three short novels described by one her daughter's biographers as ... more »
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Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton Poems
My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!
MY heart is like a withered nut, Rattling within its hollow shell; You cannot ope my breast, and put Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
I do not love Thee
I DO not love thee!--no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
YES, I know that you once were my lover, But that sort of thing has an end, And though love and its transports are over,
The Arab's Farewell To His Horse
MY beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
A Voice From The Factories
WHEN fallen man from Paradise was driven, Forth to a world of labour, death, and care; Still, of his native Eden, bounteous Heaven
LOVE not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay! Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers— Things that are made to fade and fall away Ere they have blossom’d for a few short hours.
We Have Been Friends Together
WE have been friends together, In sunshine and in shade; Since first beneath the chestnut-trees In infancy we played.
As When From Dreams Awaking
AS when from dreams awaking The dim forms float away Whose visioned smiles were making Our darkness bright as day;
I Cannot Love Thee!
I CANNOT love thee, tho' thy soul Be one which all good thoughts control; Altho' thy eyes be starry bright,
I Was Not False To Thee
I WAS not false to thee, and yet My cheek alone looked pale; My weary eye was dim and wet,
SURELY I heard a voice-surely my name Was breathed in tones familiar to my heart! I listened-and the low wind stealing came,
Escape From The Snares Of Love
YOUNG LOVE has chains of metal rare, Heavy as gold-yet light as air: It chanced he caught a heart one day
ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought Never to wake thy silent strings again, A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,
OH! if the winds could whisper what they hear, When murmuring round at sunset through the grove; If words were written on the streamlet clear,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!
MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
The hopes and dreams that filled it when
Life's spring of glory met my view,
Are gone! and ne'er with joy or pain
That shrunken heart shall swell anew.
My heart is like a withered nut;
Once it was soft to every touch,
But now 'tis stern and closely shut;--
I would not have to plead with such.
Each light-toned voice once cleared my brow,
Each gentle breeze once shook the tree
Where hung the sun-lit ...