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76 | In This Our World And woman? He will hold her—he will have her when he pleases— And he never once hath seen her since the prehistoric time! Gone the friend and comrade of the day when life was younger, She who rests and comforts, she who helps and saves; Still he seeks her vainly, with a never-dying hunger; Alone beneath his tyrants, alone above his slaves! Toiler, bent and weary with the load of thine own making! Thou who art sad and lonely, though lonely all in vain! Who hast sought to conquer Pleasure and have her for the taking, And found that Pleasure only was another name for Pain,— Nature hath reclaimed thee, forgiving dispossession! God hath not forgotten, though man doth still forget! The woman-soul is rising, in despite of thy transgression; Loose her now—and trust her! She will love thee yet! Love thee? She will love thee as only freedom knoweth; Love thee? She will love thee while Love itself doth live! Fear not the heart of woman! No bitterness it showeth! The ages of her sorrow have but taught her to forgive! Women of To-day You women of today who fear so much The women of the future, showing how The dangers of her course are such and such— What are you now? Mothers and Wives and Housekeepers, forsooth! Great names! you cry, full scope to rule and please! Room for wise age and energetic youth!— But are you these? Housekeepers? Do you then, like those of yore, Keep house with power and pride, with grace and ease? No, you keep servants only! What is more, You don’t keep these! Wives, say you? Wives! Blessed indeed are they Who hold of love the everlasting keys, Keeping your husbands’ hearts! Alas the day! You don’t keep these! And mothers? Pitying Heaven! Mark the cry From cradle death-beds! Mothers on their knees! Why, half the children born—as children, die! You don’t keep these! And still the wailing babies come and go, And homes are waste, and husband’s hearts fly far; WOM A N | 77 There is no hope until you dare to know The thing you are! To the Young Wife Are you content, you pretty three-years’ wife? Are you content and satisfied to live On what your loving husband loves to give, And give to him your life? Are you content with work,—to toil alone, To clean things dirty and to soil things clean; To be a kitchen-maid, be called a queen,— Queen of a cook-stove throne? Are you content to reign in that small space— A wooden palace and a yard-fenced land— With other queens abundant on each hand, Each fastened in her place? Are you content to rear your children so? Untaught yourself, untrained, perplexed, distressed, Are you so sure your way is always best? That you can always know? Have you forgotten how you used to long In days of ardent girlhood, to be great, To help the groaning world, to serve the state, To be so wise—so strong? And are you quite convinced this is the way, The only way a woman’s duty lies— Knowing all women so have shut their eyes? Seeing the world to-day? Have you no dream of life in fuller store? Of growing to be more than that you are? Doing the things you now do better far, Yet doing others—more? Losing no love, but finding as you grew That as you entered upon nobler life You so became a richer, sweeter wife, A wiser mother too? What holds you? Ah, my dear, it is your throne, Your paltry queenship in that narrow place, Your antique labors, your restricted space, Your working all alone! Be not deceived! ’Tis not your wifely bond That holds you, nor the mother’s royal power, ...

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