I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
How much better is silence; the coffee-cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee-cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.
For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone.
As a woman, I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman my country is the whole world.
Words rose above the intolerably laden dumb oxen plodding through the mud. Words without meaning—wonderful words.
Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.