To my Maternal Grand-father on hearing his descent
from Chippewa ancestors misrepresented

Rise bravest chief! of the mark of the noble deer,
        	    	With eagle glance,
        	    	Resume thy lance,
And wield again thy warlike spear!
        	    	The foes of thy line,
        	    	With coward design,
Have dared with black envy to garble the truth,
And stain with a falsehood thy valorous youth.

They say when a child, thou wert ta’en from the Sioux,
        	    	And with impotent aim,
        	    	To lessen thy fame
Thy warlike lineage basely abuse;
        	    	For they know that our band,
        	    	Tread a far distant land,
And thou noble chieftain art nerveless and dead,
Thy bow all unstrung, and thy proud spirit fled.

Can the sports of thy youth, or thy deeds ever fade?
        	    	Or those e’er forget,
        	    	Who are mortal men yet,
The scenes where so bravely thou’st lifted the blade,
        	    	Who have fought by thy side,
        	    	And remember thy pride,
When rushing to battle, with valour and ire,
Thou saw’st the fell foes of thy nation expire?

Can the warrior forget how sublimely you rose?
        	    	Like a star in the west,
        	    	When the sun’s sink to rest,
That shines in bright splendour to dazzle our foes?
        	    	Thy arm and thy yell,
        	    	Once the tale could repel
Which slander invented, and minions detail,
And still shall thy actions refute the false tale.

Rest thou, noblest chief! in thy dark house of clay,
        	    	Thy deeds and thy name,
        	    	Thy child’s child shall proclaim,
And make the dark forests resound with the lay;
        	    	Though thy spirit has fled,
        	    	To the hills of the dead,
Yet thy name shall be held in my heart’s warmest core,
And cherish’d till valour and love be no more.

Farewell, sweetheart, and again farewell;

To day we part, and who can tell

     If we shall e’er again

Meet, and with clasped hands

Renew our vows of love, and forget

     The sad, dull pain.

Dear heart, ’tis bitter thus to lose thee

And think mayhap, you will forget me;

     And yet, I thrill

As I remember long and happy days

Fraught with sweet love and pleasant memories

     That linger still

You go to loved ones who will smile

And clasp you in their arms, and all the while

     I stay and moan

For you, my love, my heart and strive

To gather up life’s dull, gray thread

     And walk alone.

Aye, with you love the red and gold

Goes from my life, and leaves it cold

     And dull and bare,

Why should I strive to live and learn

And smile and jest, and daily try

     You from my heart to tare?

Nay, sweetheart, rather would I lie

Me down, and sleep for aye; or fly

      To regions far

Where cruel Fate is not and lovers live

Nor feel the grim, cold hand of Destiny

      Their way to bar.

I murmur not, dear love, I only say

Again farewell. God bless the day

      On which we met,

And bless you too, my love, and be with you

In sorrow or in happiness, nor let you

      E’er me forget.

 

From her window marshland stretched for miles.
If not for egrets and gulls, it reminded her of the moors
behind the parsonage, how the fog often hovered
and descended as if sheltering some sweet compulsion
the age was not ready to see. On clear days the jagged
skyline of Atlantic City was visible—Atlantic City,
where all compulsions had a home.

"Everything's too easy now," she said to her neighbor,
"nothing resisted, nothing gained." Once, at eighteen,
she dreamed of London's proud salons glowing
with brilliant fires and dazzling chandeliers.
Already her own person—passionate, assertive—
soon she'd create a governess insistent on rights equal
to those above her rank. "The dangerous picture

of a natural heart," one offended critic carped.
She'd failed, he said, to let religion reign
over the passions and, worse, she was a woman.
Now she was amazed at what women had,
doubly amazed at what they didn't.
But she hadn't come back to complain or haunt.
Her house on the bay was modest, adequate.

It need not accommodate brilliant sisters
or dissolute brothers, spirits lost or fallen.
Feminists would pay homage, praise her honesty
and courage. Rarely was she pleased. After all,
she was an artist; to speak of honesty in art,
she knew, was somewhat beside the point.
And she had married, had even learned to respect

the weakness in men, those qualities they called
their strengths. Whatever the struggle, she wanted men
included. Charlotte missed reading chapters to Emily, 
Emily reading chapters to her. As ever, though, she'd try
to convert present into presence, something unsung
sung, some uprush of desire frankly acknowledged,
even in this, her new excuse for a body.

I’m happiest now when most away
I can tear my soul from its mould of clay,
On a windy night when the moon is bright,
And my eye can wander through worlds of light.

When I am not, and none beside,
   Nor earth, nor sea, nor cloudless sky,
But only spirit wandering wide
   Through infinite immensity.

The night is darkening round me
The wild winds coldly blow
But a tyrant spell has bound me 
And I cannot cannot go

The giant trees are bending 
Their bare boughs weighed with snow 
And the storm is fast descending 
And yet I cannot go 

Clouds beyond clouds above me 
Wastes beyond wastes below 
But nothing drear can move me 
I will not cannot go