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Updated: May 23, 2025
If she cannot have a companion to listen to her woes, and has no musical utterance, vocal or instrumental, then, if she is of the real woman sort, and has a few heartfuls of wild blood in her, and you have done her a wrong, double-bolt the door which she may enter on noiseless slipper at midnight, look twice before you taste of any cup whose draught the shadow of her hand may have darkened!
How shall man measure Progress there where the dark-faced Josie lies? How many heartfuls of sorrow shall balance a bushel of wheat? How hard a thing is life to the lowly, and yet how human and real! And all this life and love and strife and failure, is it the twilight of nightfall or the flush of some faint-dawning day? Thus sadly musing, I rode to Nashville in the Jim Crow car.
But I would say next, Are you sure that he could not do anything for so long? Does a baby do nothing? Ask mamma there. Is it for nothing that the mother lifts up such heartfuls of thanks to God for the baby on her knee? Is it nothing that the baby opens such fountains of love in almost all the hearts around?
If she cannot have a companion to listen to her woes, and has no musical utterance, vocal or instrumental, then, if she is of the real woman sort, and has a few heartfuls of wild blood in her, and you have done her a wrong, double-bolt the door which she may enter on noiseless slipper at midnight, look twice before you taste of any cup whose draught the shadow of her hand may have darkened!
If she cannot have a companion to listen to her woes, and has no musical utterance, vocal or instrumental, then, if she is of the real woman sort, and has a few heartfuls of wild blood in her, and you have done her a wrong, double-bolt the door which she may enter on noiseless slipper at midnight, look twice before you taste of any cup whose draught the shadow of her hand may have darkened!
How shall man measure Progress there where the dark-faced Josie lies? How many heartfuls of sorrow shall balance a bushel of wheat? How hard a thing is life to the lowly, and yet how human and real! And all this life and love and strife and failure, is it the twilight of nightfall or the flush of some faint-dawning day? Thus sadly musing, I rode to Nashville in the Jim Crow car.
Bearest thou a message from him to me?" "He bade me salute thee, Princess Irene, as if thou wert now the Lady of his House of Love in his Garden of Perfection, and to pray if he might come and in person kiss thy hand, and tell thee his hopes, and pour out at thy feet his love in heartfuls larger than ever woman had from man."
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