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"Woman, the New Factor in Economics." by Rev. Augusta Cooper Bristol. from The Congress of Women: Held in the Woman's Building, World's Columbian Exposition, Chicago, U. S. A., 1893.. Chicago, ILL: Monarch Book Company, 1894. pp. pp. 80-86. at The Celebration of Women Writers, University of Pennsylvania Digital Library

"Rev. Augusta Cooper Bristol is a native of New Hampshire. She was born April 17,1835. Her parents were Otis Cooper and Hannah (Powers) Cooper. In 1866 she married Louis Bristol, a lawyer of Connecticut. She is a woman of big brain, well stored with valuable information, and one of the most graceful and profound writers and speakers of the present day. Her principal literary works are a volume of poems and various published lectures, some of which have been translated into French. She is a member of no special church at present, but in faith is Unitarian, and not infrequently speaks from the pulpit. Her postoffice address is Vineland, N. Y." Augusta Bristol [1835-1910]


SPRING

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,
And there's a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,
The brown of Autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know
That, not a span below,
A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.

Already, here and there, on frailest stems
Appear some azure gems,
Small as might deck, upon a gala day,
The forehead of a fay.

In gardens you may note amid the dearth,
The crocus breaking earth;
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Along the budding grass,
And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,
And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,
If from a beech's heart
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,
"Behold me! I am May!"
Henry Timrod [1829-1867]