Katharine Lee Bates
Katharine Lee Bates was an ardent feminist and the author of the song
"America the Beautiful." She attended Wellesley college and later returned
to join the faculty. While on staff she met Katharine Coman and began
a relationship that lasted for 25 years.
Bates and Coman's relationship might be best described as a romantic
friendship. It is not clear whether their relationship was sexual, but
it was intensely loving; Bates referred to Coman as her "Joy of Life"
and wrote many poems about their love.
Both women had successful careers at Wellesley college--Bates became
chair of the English department, while Coman became chair of the Economics
Department and Dean of the college. They kept contact with other educated
women who lived in couples as they did, but they did not assume roles
as lesbian activists.
In 1912, Coman was diagnosed with cancer, and Bates nursed her until
Coman died in 1915. In 1922, Bates published a limited volume of poetry
entitled, "Yellow Clover," where she wrote of their relationship.
Bates remained at Wellesley until she retired in 1925. She died four
years later, at the age of 70. Only a few years before her death, she
wrote to a friend, "So much of me died with Katharine Coman that I'm sometimes
not quite sure whether I'm alive or not."
Biography by Alix North
My love, my love, if you could come once more
From your high place,
I would not question you for heavenly lore,
But, silent, take the comfort of your face.
I would not ask you if those golden spheres
In love rejoice,
If only our stained star hath sin and tears,
But fill my famished hearing with your voice.
One touch of you were worth a thousand creeds.
My wound is numb
Through toil-pressed, but all night long it bleeds
In aching dreams, and still you cannot come.
Must I, who walk alone,
Come on it still,
This Puck of plants
The wise would do away with,
The sunshine slants
To play with,
Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover,
Which once in parting for a time
That then seemed long,
Ere time for you was over,
We sealed our own?
Do you remember yet,
O Soul beyond the stars,
Beyond the uttermost dim bars
Dear Soul who found the earth sweet,
Remember by love's grace,
In dreamy hushes of heavenly song,
How suddenly we halted in our climb,
Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill,
Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet,
And gave them as a token
Each to each,
In lieu of speech,
In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken,
Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wet
With a strange dew of tears?
So it began,
This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover,
To be our tenderest language. All the years
It lent a new zest to the summer hours,
As each of us went scheming to surprise
The other with our homely, laureate flowers,
Sonnets and odes,
Fringing our daily roads.
Can amaranth and asphodel
Bring merrier laughter to your eyes?
Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes,
Keep any wistful consciousness of earth,
Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love,
Simplicities of mirth,
Must follow them above
With touches of vague homesickness that pass
Like shadows of swift birds across the grass.
How oft, beneath some foreign arch of sky,
You or I,
For life oft sundered look from look,
And voice from voice, the transient dearth
Schooling my soul to brook
This distance that no messages may span,
Upon our wilding by a lonely well,
Or drowsy watermill,
Or swaying to the chime of convent bell,
Or where the nightingales of old romance
With tragical contraltos fill
Dim solitudes of infinite desire;
And once I joyed to meet
Our peasant gadabout
A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat,
Twinkling a sauce eye
As potentates paced by.
Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame
From friendship's altar fire!
How proudly we would pluck and tame
The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay!
How swiftly they were sent
Far, far away
On journeys wide
By sea and continent,
Green miles and blue leagues over,
From each of us to each,
That so our hearts might reach
And touch within the yellow clover,
Love's letter to be glad about
Like sunshine when it came!
My sorrow asks no healing; it is love;
Let love then make me brave
To bear the keen hurts of
This careless summertide,
Ay, of our own poor flower,
Changed with our fatal hour,
For all its sunshine vanished when you died.
Only white cover blossoms on your grave.
Where to Read More...
Lee Bates--an article by Meghan Thomas exploring Katharine Lee Bate's
love for Katharine Coman.
- Statue of Katharine
Lee Bates--shows a photograph of the statue in Falmouth, with plaque
- The Katharine
Lee Bates Shrine
Lee Bates of Falmouth, Massachusetts
- Katharine Lee Bates, Yellow Clover: A Book of Remembrance
(New York: E.P. Dutton, 1922)
- Katharine Lee Bates, Selected Poems (Boston: Houghton Mifflin,
- Dorothy Burgess, Dream and Deed: The Story of Katharine Lee Bates
(Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1952)
- Judith Schwarz, "Yellow Clover: Katharine Lee Bates and Katharine
Coman," Frontiers: A Journal of Women's Studies, 4:1 (Spring
1979), pp 59-67