I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind.

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! "I had you and I have you now no more.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late; And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.

A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him.

Not for the flag Of any land because myself was born there Will I give up my life. But I will love that land where man is free, And that will I defend.