Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet. . . indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Who shall measure the hat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?