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C.N. Douglas, comp.  Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical.  1917.
 
Harriet Prescott Spofford
 
        I am the one rich thing that morn
  Leaves for the ardent noon to win;
Grasp me not, I have a thorn,
  But bend and take my being in.
  1
        It was nothing but a rose I gave her,—
        Nothing but a rose
Any wind might rob of half its savor,
        Any wind that blows.
*        *        *        *        *
Withered, faded, pressed between these pages,
        Crumpled, fold on fold,—
Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
        Cannot make it old!
  2
        Under the snowdrifts the blossoms are sleeping,
Dreaming their dreams of sunshine and June,
Down in the hush of their quiet they’re keeping
Trills from the throstle’s wild summer-sung tune.
  3
  If a woman is not fit to manage the internal matters of a house, she is fit for nothing, and should never be put in a house or over a house, any way. Good housekeeping lies at the root of all the real ease and satisfaction in existence.  4
  Since the foundation of the world man has had nearly all the forces on his side, working with him and for him; his intellect has been stimulated, while that of woman has been abased; he has had the run of the world and all quickening and brightening things, while she has sat in the cinders, and until of late been illumined only by his reflected light.  5
 
 
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