Abstract
Picture, if you will, the woman poet of the Romantic era, toiling away in obscurity, fearful of putting her name before the public — of being seen and recognized as a writer, publishing book after book anonymously or under the veil of ‘by a lady’, or using some other subterfuge to keep her true identity secret. This woman poet, this familiar portrait, is a fiction — as much of a myth, it seems, as the notion of poetry coming as spontaneously and ‘as naturally as the Leaves to a tree’.
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