I've been described as a tough and noisy woman, a prize fighter, a man-hater, you name it. They call me Battling Bella, Mother Cou...rage, and a Jewish mother with more complaints than Portnoy. There are those who say I'm impatient, impetuous, uppity, rude, profane, brash, and overbearing. Whether I'm any of those things, or all of them, you can decide for yourself. But whatever I am --and this ought to be made very clear--I am a very serious woman.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I wasn't born to be a fighter. I was born with a gentle nature, a flexible character and an organism as equilibrated as it is judg...ed hysterical. I shouldn't have been forced to fight constantly and ferociously. The causes I have fought for have invariably been causes that should have been gained by a delicate suggestion. Since they never were, I made myself into a fighter.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
A pleasant smell of frying sausages Attacks the sense, along with an old, mostly invisible... Photograph of what seems to be girls lounging around An old fighter bomber, circa 1942 vintage.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
No Raven's wing can stretch the flight so far As the torn bandrols of Napoleon's war.... Choose then your climate, fix your best abode, He'll make you deserts and he'll bring you blood. How could you fear a dearth? have not mankind, Tho slain by millions, millions left behind? Has not conscription still the power to weild Her annual faulchion o'er the human field? A faithful harvester!LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
With sweet May dews my wings were wet, And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;... He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Yet the day wears, And door succeeds door;... I try the fresh fortune-- Range the wide house from the wing to the centre, Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest,--who cares?LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The year's at the spring And day's at the morn;... Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world!LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »