A PURITAN LADY.
Wild Carthage held her Rome, Sidon. She shook to tears * Tall, golden Helen, wearying Behind the Trojan spears. Old Antwerp knew her well; She wore her Sober gown In some tall house in Oxford grass, Or lane in Salem town. Humble and high in one, Cool, certain, different, She lasts ; scarce saint, yet half a child, As hard, as innocent. What grave, long afternoons, What caged airs round her blown* Stripped her of humour, left her bare As cloud, or wayside stone? Made her as clear a thing, In this slack world as plain As a white flower on a grave, Or sleet sharp at a pane? —-Lizette Woodworth Reese, in The Lyric.
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Bibliographic details
Otago Witness, Issue 3773, 6 July 1926, Page 73
Word Count
116A PURITAN LADY. Otago Witness, Issue 3773, 6 July 1926, Page 73
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