Who is Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, also known as Mother Mary Alphonsa, (May 20, 1851 – July 9, 1926) was an American writer and religious leader. She was a Catholic religious sister, social worker, and foundress of the Dominican Sisters of Hawthorne.

Early life and education

Rose Hawthorne was born on May 20, 1851, in Lenox, Massachusetts, to Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife Sophia Peabody. Sophia was assisted in the birth by her father, Nathaniel Peabody. Hawthorne wrote about the infant Rose to his friend, Horatio Bridge, comparing her birth to the publication of a book: "Mrs. Hawthorne published a little work, two months ago, which still lies in sheets; but, I assure you, it makes some noise in the world, both by day and night. In plain English, we have another little re...
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Rose Hawthorne Lathrop Poems

  • The Roads That Meet
    ART.


    One is so fair, I turn to go, ...
  • Grace
    Ill-wrought life we look at as we die!
    Mistaken, selfish, meagre, and unmeet;
    So graven on the hearts that cruelly
    We have deprived of many an hour sweet: ...
  • Why Sad To-day?
    Why is the nameless sorrowing look
    So often thought a whim?
    God-willed, the willow shades the brook,
    The gray owl sings a hymn; ...
  • Pride: Fate
    Lullaby on the wing
    Of my song, O my own!
    Soft airs of evening
    Join my song's murmuring tone. ...
  • Ours To Endure
    We speak of the world that passes away, -
    The world of men who lived years ago,
    And could not feel that their hearts' quick glow
    Would fade to such ashen lore to-day. ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Soul 14 Earth 11 Wide 10 Sweet 10 Deep 10 Cold 9 Silent 9 Hear 8 Young 8 White 8


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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
 by Andrew Lang

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
...

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