The Day Breaks Not, It Is My

All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

The Phoenix Riddle Hath More Wit By Us, We Two Being One, Are It. So To One Neutral Thing Both Sexes Fit, We Die And Rise The Same, And Prove Mysterious By This Love.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.

Commemoration Of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator Of The Scriptures, 1922 A Memory Of Yesterday's Pleasures, A Fear Of Tomorrow's Dangers, A Straw Under My Knees, A Noise In My Ear, A Light In My Eye, An Anything, A Nothing, A Fancy, A Chimera In My Brain, Troubles Me In My Prayers.