Apparently Woolson had a spirited correspondence with Henry James, and on the basis of her half-joking criticism of [b:The Portrait of a Lady|264|The Portrait of a Lady|Henry James|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1386925428s/264.jpg|1434368] I read her short story "Miss Grief" and quite loved it. Here's a sample:

Once during this period I showed two of the short poems to Isabel, withholding of course the writer's name. "They were written by a woman," I explained.

"Her mind must have been disordered, poor thing!" Isabel said in her gentle way when she returned them--"at least, judging by these. They are hopelessly mixed and vague."

Now, they were not vague so much as vast. But I knew that I could not make Isabel comprehend it, and (so complex a creature is man) I do not know that I wanted her to comprehend it. These were the only ones in the whole collection that I would have shown her, and I was rather glad that she did not like even these. Not that poor Aaronna's poems were evil: they were simply unrestrained, large, vast, like the skies or the wind. Isabel was bounded on all sides, like a violet in a garden-bed. And I liked her so.