Constance Fenimore Woolson

  • In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars,
        In floating, curling sprays,
    The golden flower comes shining through the woods
        These February days;
    Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town,
        To bring her gayly in,
    This wild,...

  • The sweetest notes among the human heart-strings are dull with rust;
    The sweetest chords, adjusted by the angels, are clogged with dust;
    We pipe and pipe again our dreary music upon the self-same strains,
    While sounds of crime, and fear, and desolation, come back in sad...