Blanche Edith Baughan
Blanche Edith Baughan was born on 16 January 1870 at Putney, Surrey, England. She was the youngest of six children of Ruth Catterns and her husband, John Baughan, a scrivener. Her father died when she was 10 years old.
Baughan was one of the first women to attend Royal Holloway College when it opened to students studying for University of London degrees. She left in 1891 having gained the first first-class honours BA degree in Classics awarded to a member of the college. Soon after graduating Baughan became involved in social work in the slums of Shoreditch and Hoxton, in east London. Much of her spare time between 1893 and 1898 was spent writing the poems ... more »
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Blanche Edith Baughan Poems
The Old Place
SO the last day’s come at last, the close of my fifteen year— The end of the hope, an’ the struggles, an’ messes I’ve put in here. All of the shearings over, the final mustering done,— Eleven hundred an’ fifty for the incoming man, near on.
On the Just and the Unjust
OUTCAST, a horror to his kind, At night he to the forest fled. There, the birch-bark made fire for him, The brown fern made a bed.
’NEATH the spiring of spruces Above the blue sea, Lo, a field of white crosses, A garden of grief!
The Greatest Gift
IF of us two might only one be glad, Pain I’d pursue, and struggle to be sad. If of us two one only might be great, Safely obscure I’d triumph in my fate.
TO taste Wild wine of the mountain-spring, fresh, living, strong, Running and rushing like a triumph-song Round hearts new-braced:
The 'Mary Ross'
'What was the hardest hour’, you ask, ‘Ever I had at sea?’ There was that in the wreck of the Mary Ross Is bitten into me.
Comments about Blanche Edith Baughan
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The Old Place
SO the last day’s come at last, the close of my fifteen year—
The end of the hope, an’ the struggles, an’ messes I’ve put in here.
All of the shearings over, the final mustering done,—
Eleven hundred an’ fifty for the incoming man, near on.
Over five thousand I drove ’em, mob by mob, down the coast;
Eleven-fifty in fifteen year…it isn’t much of a boast.
Oh, it’s a bad old place! Blown out o’ your bed half the nights,
And in the summer the grass burnt shiny an’ bare as your hand, on the heights:
The creek dried up by November, and in...