Quotes from Alice Duer Miller

Mother, what is a Feminist?" "A feminist, my daughter, Is any woman now who cares To think about her own affairs As men don't think she oughter.

The editor was often called a Bolshevist—as who is not in these days? For language is given us not only to conceal thought, but often to prevent it, and every now and then when the problems of the world become too complex and too vital, some one stops all thought on a subject by inventing a tag, like "witch" in the seventeenth century, or "Bolshevist" in the twentieth. Ben

The following is a narrative poem. It became a huge success at the time of its publication, and inspired the 1944 movie The White Cliffs of Dover. It is about an American girl who visits London just before the First World War, marries, and stays in England during the succeeding years, including the start of the Second World War.

I have loved England, dearly and deeply, Since that first morning, shining and pure, The white cliffs of Dover I saw, rising steeply Out of the sea that once made her secure.

But many novels of an earlier day-- _Ravenshoe_, _Can You Forgive Her_, _Vivien Grey_, Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's _Red As A Rose_, _Guy Livingstone_, Whyte-Melville--Heaven knows What others. Now, I thought, I was to see Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee, I cared for none, and no one cared for me.

The English are frosty When you're no kith or kin Of theirs, but how they alter When once they take you in! The kindest, the truest, The best friends ever known, It's hard to remember How they froze you to a bone.

Not your first visit to the States?" "Oh no, I'd been in Canada two years ago." Good God, I thought, have they not heard that we Were those queer colonists who would be free, Who took our desperate chance, and fought and won Under a colonist called Washington? One does not lose one's birthright, it appears. I had been English then for many years.

Facts. I was taken down to see the place, The family place in Devon--and John's mother. "Of course, you understand," he said, "my brother Will have the place." He smiled; he was so sure The world was better for primogeniture. And yet he loved that place, as Englishmen

The day should be as it was sure to be-- When this was home no more to him--when he Could go there only when his brother's wife Should ask him--to a room not his--his life Would shrink and lose its meaning. How unjust, I thought. Why do they feel it must Go to that idle, insolent eldest son? Well, in the end it went to neither one.

When your heart would ache to hear Other men's tongues repeating Those same light phrases that jest and jeer At a friend now grown so dear--so dear. Strange to remember long ago When a friend was almost a foe.

Knowing that our happiness Might never come again; I, not forgetting, "Till death us do part," Was outrageously happy With death in my heart. Lovers in peacetime With fifty years to live, Have time to tease and quarrel And question what to give; But lovers in wartime Better understand The fullness of living, With death close at hand.

When Johnnie went to France. Such a tame ending To a great romance-- Two lonely women With nothing much to do But get to know each other; She did and I did, too. Mornings at the Rectory, Learning how to roll Bandages, and always Saving light and coal. Oh, that house was bitter As winter closed in, In spite of heavy stockings And woolen next the skin. I was cold and wretched, And never unaware Of John more cold and wretched In a trench out there.

Dear friend, come home. I have tragic news," he said. She looked straight at him without a spasm of fear, Her face not stern or masked-- "Is it Percy or John?" she asked. "Percy." She dropped her eyes. "I am needed here. Surely you know I cannot go Until every letter is written. The dead Must wait on the living," she said. "This is my work. I must stay.

How old, how commonplace To look upon the face Of your first-born, and glory in your lot. To look upon his face And understand your place Among the unknown dead in churchyards lying, To see the reason why You lived and why you die-- Even to find a certain grace in dying.

Teaching him to be civil and manly and cool In the face of danger. And then before I knew it The time came for him to go off to school. Off to school to be free of women's teaching, Into a world of men--at seven years old; Into a world where a mother's hands vainly reaching Will never again caress and comfort and hold.

Oh, to come home to your country After long years away, To see the tall shining towers Rise over the rim of the bay, To feel the west wind steadily blowing And the sunshine golden and hot, To speak to each man as an equal, Whether he is or not.

Was this America--this my home Prohibition and Teapot Dome-- Speakeasies, night clubs, illicit stills, Dark faces peering behind dark grills, Hold-ups, kidnappings, hootch or booze-- Everyone gambling--you just can't lose, Was this my country?

People love to talk but hate to listen.

And now too late, we see these things are one: The art is sacrifice and self-control And who loves beauty must be stern of soul.

Hate is perhaps the most dynamic of all emotions - fear may immobilize, love may stay the hand, but hate urges to action.

Love will not always linger longest with those who hold it in too clenched a fist.

People love to talk but hate to listen. Listening is not merely not talking, though even that is beyond most of our powers; it means taking a vigorous, human interest in what is being told us. You can listen like a blank wall or like a splendid auditorium where every sound comes back fuller and richer.

Listening is not merely not talking, though even that is beyond most of our powers; it means taking a vigorous, human interest in what is being told us.

Men are too emotional to vote. Their conduct at baseball games and political conventions shows this . . .