All women authors, sorted from shortest to longest

“Success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar requires sorest need…”

“I remember rooms that have had their part in the steady slowing down of the heart. The room in Paris, the room at Geneva…”

“I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – The Stillness in the Room was like the Stillness in the Air – between the Heaves of Storm…”

“If you sit down at set of sun and count the acts that you have done, and, counting, find one self-denying deed, one word that eased the heart of him who heard…”

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain under my head till morning…”

“Sweet evenings come and go, love, they came and went of yore: This evening of our life, love, shall go and come no more…”

“When I am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me; plant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree…”

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…”

“I shall forget you presently, my dear, so make the most of this, your little day, your little month, your little half a year, ere I forget, or die, or move away…”

“If thou must love me, let it be for nought except for love’s sake only. Do not say “I love her for her smile…”

“I grant you ample leave to use the hoary formula ‘I am’ naming the emptiness where thought is not…”

“I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: Penelope did this too. And more than once: you can’t keep weaving all day and undoing it all through the night…”

““Yes!” I answered you last night; “No!” this morning, Sir, I say! Colours, seen by candle-light, will not look the same by day…”

“Secrets, you said, would hold us two apart; you’d have me know of you your least transgression, and so the intimate places of your heart, kneeling, you bared to me, as in confession.…”

“I never said I loved you, John. Why will you tease me, day by day, and wax a weariness to think upon with always do and pray?…”

“Three summers since I chose a maid, too young maybe—but more’s to do at harvest-time than bide and woo…”

“My forest brave, my Red-skin love, farewell; we may not meet to-morrow; who can tell what mighty ills befall our little band…”

“I walk down the garden paths, and all the daffodils are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden paths in my stiff, brocaded gown…”

“Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death…”