Edith Wharton(24 January 1862 - 11 August 1937 / New York City / United States)
- by Edith Wharton73
La Belgique ne regrette rien
Not with her ruined silver spires, Not with her cities shamed and rent, Perish the imperishable fires That shape the homestead from the tent.
Wherever men are staunch and free, There shall she keep her fearless state, And homeless, to great nations be The home of all that makes them great.
- by Edith Wharton51
I MEANT to be so strong and true! The world may smile and question, When? But what I might have been to you I cannot be to other men. Just one in twenty to the rest, And all in all to you alone, - This was my dream; perchance 'tis best That this, like other dreams, is flown.
For you I should have been so kind, So prompt my spirit to control, To win fresh vigor for my mind, And purer beauties for my soul; Beneath your eye I might have grown To that divine, ideal height, Which, mating wholly with your own, Our equal spirits should unite.
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