• In My Lady’s Chamber (a Speculative Romance, Touching a Few Questions of the Day). Originally published under the pen name (pseudonym) of Colossa (Anna Kingsford). J. Burns, 15, Southampton Row, Holborn, London, 1873. 319 pp.
Information: Our sincere thanks to Mr. Ralph Johnson, from England, for his generous help in copying this work from its original in the British Library. This work was not generally available until added to the Anna Kingsford site. Sincere thanks are also due to Mr. Brian McAllister for kindly helping in the revision of the digitization errors.
Below are its title pages and the links to the complete text of the work:
IN MY LADY’S CHAMBER
A Speculative Romance,
Touching a Few Questions of the Day
J. Burns, 15,
Printed by James Welch,
nº. 6, St. Clement Inn Passage,
A STORY OF HER DECEASED HUSBAND’S BROTHER
“I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill,
The feet that bare me wi’ sic speid
The comelie youth to kill.”
– Gil Morrice.
A SONNET OF DEDICATION
This book is thine, my friend, and this thy song,
My service follows aye where rests my heart;
Since heart and service then to thee belong,
Take also this, which of myself is part.
A sorry gift, beneath thy lightest thought –
Thy meanest thanks, – yet, worthless though it be,
One value hath it still, that it was wrought,
As is all else of mine, beloved, for thee!
My life hath no good thing that doth not take
Its brightness from the love which is my sun;
For thee I sing or laugh, and for thy sake
From day to day whate’er I do is done!
Yet, though this be, and still like morning’s glow
That one sweet thought turn all my grey to gold,
Thou dost not know my heart, nor canst thou know
As others do, to whom that heart is cold!
I am a dullard in thy presence, sweet,
I have no power to think when thou art near,
And from my trembling lips the words retreat,
Abashed and coy, when thou art by to hear!
Would I be witty to deserve thy grace?
Would I be wise to win some praise from thee?
‘Tis all in vain – I look but in thy face,
And straightway love alone possesseth me!
Since, then, thy face my sight doth ever fill,
Thy fault it is this book is writ so ill!
A Sonnet of Dedication (above)