Charlotte Perkins Gilman's In This Our World and Uncollected Poems

The “Old” Woman

U NC OL L E C T E D A N D O T H E R P OE M S | 165 There’s no end of pleasant muck— I can suck.” “I am happy,” said the lark, “I can sing! Rising swiftly, rising strongly On the wing. Thank the Lord for food and rest, For the safe and dainty nest, For the little brood below And sweet wife who loves me so! Thank Him more that I can see, Beyond all that comes to me, Flower-gemmed earth so warm and fair, The gold sunshine and blue air! Thank Him most for heights unending And the glory of ascending! Thank the lord for power of wing And power to sing!” (Woman’s Journal, 9 January 1904, 10) Coming Because the time is ripe, the age is ready, Because the world her woman’s help demands, Out of the long subjection and seclusion Come to our field of warfare and confusion The mother’s heart and hands. Long has she stood aside, endured and waited, While man swung forward, toiling on alone; Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated, Now, for the world for which she was created, Comes woman to her own. Not for herself! though sweet the air of freedom; Not for herself! though dear the new-born power; But for the child, who needs a nobler mother, For the whole people, needing one another, Comes woman to her hour. (Woman’s Journal, 16 January 1904, 18) The “Old” Woman Don’t talk to me of modern wives— “Advanced,” “progressive,” “new”— And the dreadful “coming woman” So forced upon my view! 166 | Uncollected and Other Poems I’d rather look the other way, Through soft romantic shades, To the mediæval lady Among her sewing maids. It minds me of those feudal days Of mirth and minstrelsy, When I kept a private Bard to praise The noble deeds of me. When I led a band of private men, Retainers brave and cool, And maintained with laugh and largesse My wholly private Fool. I’ve lost my bard, I’ve lost my sword! I’ve lost baronial life! There’s nothing left of the feudal lord Except his feudal wife! I love to see her so remain Through motionless decades Striving in vain to still maintain Those feudal sewing maids. Still further do I love to look Down all the line of life, Past every step of progress to My Paleolithic wife! Dear woman! Doing all her work At our domestic shrine— How it brings back those early days When I was doing mine! When slow I chipped the arrowhead, And swift I chased the bear; And with my own two hands won all We had to eat and wear. I was the happiest of men In those dear days of stone; My family had but little, but It came from me alone. Now they are housed and clothed and fed By a thousand men to-day; But it’s better to have women work In the sweet primeval way. Give us united fatherhood, All organized and free U NC OL L E C T E D A N D O T H E R P OE M S | 167 But a protosocial mother In domestic industry! This new advance of woman The normal husband fears— We’d rather have our wives behind By several thousand years. (Woman’s Journal, 23 January 1904, 26) A Valentine to the Bluestocking Lady whose pen is a power! Lady of brilliance and brain! Low at thy footstool I cower, Humblest of all in thy train, Secure and serene in thy reign, Unapproachable, high and apart Speak! May thy servant remain? Tell me—hast thou a heart? Cometh there never an hour That wearies of glory and gain? When gold in a Danæan shower25 Seems only a weight and a chain? When thou longest no more to attain Success in the temple, the mart, With the restless wild effort and strain, Tell me—hast thou a heart? So proud in thy beautiful bower! So strong with thy art to sustain. Thinkest thou ne’er that the flower Or thy youth may yet wither and wane? Of the joys that a home would contain? Alone with thy pride and thy art Love’s messengers woo thee in vain. Tell me—hast thou a heart? Envoy. Star by whose beams...