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Julia Ward Howe

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Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
To deck our girls for gay delights!
The crimson flower of battle blooms,
And solemn marches fill the nights.
--
"Our Orders" in The Atlantic Monthly (July 1861).

 
Julia Ward Howe

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My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languished air,
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Pure at heart: to be like a flower that blooms as gloriously, brilliantly in a secluded wild wood, not seen and praised.

 
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Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain!
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Skirting the rocks at the forest edge
With a running flame from ledge to ledge,
Or swaying deeper in shadowy glooms,
A smoldering fire in her dusky blooms;
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Maddening, gladdening every one
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby, you fool!

 
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