The Fire i' the Flint

The sudden thrust of speech is no mean test
Of man or woman. Caesar, with his cry
Of anguish,—Pilate, putting justice by,—
Into three words a human soul compressed;
Three broke from Galileo’s brooding breast;
And Desdemona, instant to reply
“Nobody...

Poet: Lucy Robinson
Hic Me, Pater Optime, Fessam Deseris

Ere yet in Vergil I could scan or spell,
Or through the enchanted portal of that lay
Dear to old Rome had found my faltering way,
How oft with heaving breast I heard thee tell
Of horrors that the Trojan fleet befell:
How for a time they were the tempest’s...

Poet: Lucy Robinson
A Ballade of Islands

I would I had been island-born.
I dearly love things insular:
The coral bed, the quaint bazaar,
The palm and breadfruit never shorn,
The smoking cone that cannot char
The azure of a tropic morn,
The dancing girl in soft cymar,—
All these...

Poet: Lucy Robinson