Talk of politeness when humanity is perishing—of the sacred sphere of woman when thousands of my sisters are prostitutes—how many from necessity, God only knows. I have not the least patience with the exquisite dandy and the fashionable flirt attempting to define proprieties—they have money, let them define dollars. Neither have I patience with a set of croakers who regret the present state of things; but how can it be helped? say they with a yawn. Look at your widowed sister struggling to preserve a home—the hectic on that cheek, produced by overtasking her physical strength, tells you death will soon set his seal upon her. Look at that married woman—sleepless nights and toilsome days cloud her brow and irritate her temper. Shall woman’s voice be hushed when woman’s shrieks are heard? Shall woman quench her light, when clouds of invisible sorrows gather thick round woman’s head?
—Harriot K. Hunt (1805–1875)
the ghosts of the tribe
Crouch in the nights beside the ghost of a fire, they try to
remember the sunlight,
Light has died out of their skies.
—Robinson Jeffers (1887–1962)
Spring-time in Florida is not a matter of peeping violets or bursting buds merely. It is a riot of color in nature—glistening green leaves, pink, blue, purple, yellow blossoms that fairly stagger the visitor from the north. The miles of hyacinths lie like an undulating carpet on the surface of the river and divide reluctantly when the slow-moving alligators push their way log-like across. the nights are white nights for the moon shines with dazzling splendor, or in the absence of that goddess, the soft darkness creeps down laden with innumerable scents. The heavy fragrance of magnolias mingled with the delicate sweetness of jasmine and wild roses.
—Zora Neale Hurston (1891–1960)