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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=403115" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Woman</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Go sleep, my sweetie—rest—rest! <br>Oh soft little hand on mother's breast! <br>Oh soft little lips—the din's mos' gone- <br>Over and done, my dearie one! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What do I think, my brother? Look at me!<br>You make me laugh, sitting there solemneyed,<br>Full of opinions, theories!—asking me—<br>Look—with my baby at my breast—to tell you,<br>Blessed big uncle!—what I think—heaven help me!—<br>Of this and that. How could you think, I wonder,<br>If baby lips were tugging at your flesh,<br>Draining your life to flower the world?<br>Dear brother,<br>It's beautiful, that masculine pride of yours, <br>That runs the universe—oh yes, I know, <br>And longs to run it well. You travel, observe, <br>Experiment, make laws and governments, <br>Build strange machines and masterfully summon <br>The elemental powers to do your work— <br>Why?—so my girl here, darling hope of the race,<br>May pillow her round head in a softer bed, <br>And dance more lightly by and by—God bless her—.<br>Into her lover's arms. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah precious!—hungry still, my bird? <br>Coo, coo—yes, darling, mother heard. <br>Coo, coo—and is it true?—<br>Ever so true?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What do I think? <br>If I were arrogant, extravagant— <br>As men have never been!—what would I think, <br>Now in this hour of pride, with all the future<br>Safe in my arms? Almost I might dare whisper<br>That it's a woman's world—do they not say it <br>In the great book of science, the new song, <br>Epic of truth? Let me but hear the word <br>In reverence—almost a woman's world! <br>We hold the race within us, we enfold <br>Life in our arms, we do great nature's work; <br>So nature hoards and wastes for us, they say,<br>Contrives our essence from her richer store, <br>And makes the haughty male out of the rest— <br>You among others, with your politics, <br>Your grand reforms, your dreams ! Hush ! do you dare<br>Follow from seedling sea-drift up to man <br>Life's long procession, noting everywhere <br>How the encompassing mother mothers us, <br>And leaves your kind to shiver and drone and die?<br>Or else, in pity, the less vital tasks <br>She gives you—bids you serve us, fight for us, <br>Even sing for us; and cunningly contrive <br>Is heavy with strange erections, and the air <br>Is noisy with ideas. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh yes, I know—<br>You've got the upper hand, you run the world, <br>Think so at least; at many an icy hearth <br>You do your will with us; and we—poor chattels—<br>Meekly we take our fortune at your hands, <br>With never a royal word to prove us women, <br>Not slaves. Why do we yield, abase ourselves, <br>If we are nature's favorites, till even <br>The mighty mother who made us in her image <br>Rejects us, winnows her worthless chaff away: <br>Poor drudges, eating the heart of the race for bread;<br>Poor puppets, wilfully idle, wilfully barren, <br>Teasers of men—riff-raff and refuse all! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why should we suffer this in a woman's world?<br>Good God, I wonder sometimes, hang my head <br>For our surrender. Ah, we clasp too close</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The burden on our hearts, nor look abroad <br>Through our long windy night of passion and pain.<br>And still at dawn we rub our sleepy eyes, <br>Here at the hearth with morning in our arms— <br>Pink-dimpled baby morning, look at her!— <br>Waiting for you, our powerful delegates, <br>To chase the night away. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But is it strange? <br>Think but a moment, ask yourself, my brother—<br>You who tell me to think—what is our life, <br>Our woman's life? Out of delicious youth, <br>Murmurous, odorous, vague, full of delights <br>Half won, half apprehended, suddenly, <br>Like a still stream seized by the ruthless ocean, <br>We are drawn to the deeps. Love, marriage, motherhood— <br>We are drowned in the physical, sensual; washed over<br>With tide on tide of feeling warm and red— <br>The heart's-blood of the world. Little pitiless <br>Grip us within, throttle us, hold us down <br>Through the long moons of feebleness and pain.<br>Little souls adrift, gathering out of the void; <br>Bring us their nebulous dreams, vague, incoherent,<br>Far lightning-flashes caught from flaming stars. <br>No longer free, no more our own, or yours, <br>No longer of this world, but of all worlds, <br>We are borne by the vast tide, the tide of storms,<br>Life irresistible, universal, deep, <br>Out of that no-man's-land, that isle of pain, <br>Where birth and death fight in the dark together <br>For the new soul, the new little infant world, , <br>Bearer of tidings, saviour of the race— <br>The child. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then, wonder of wonders, comes <br>The change. All glowing, from his great white throne<br>God stoops to us; we see the splendor, we hear <br>The thronging harps, we feel here in our arms<br>His presence forming softly, clasping close <br>Into a little tender human thing— <br>Our own, ours, ours. Then suddenly for a moment <br>We are swept away by joy magnificent, <br>And from high heaven watch the brave world go by. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Read the old story—it's our Bethlehem. <br>We couch in a manger, bring forth young like beasts<br>In blood and shame and agony, and then <br>Rise with the living God safe in our arms. <br>Well, after that what are your grand affairs,<br>Your brave ideas, your dreams? We scarcely heed <br>Your world-building, we leave you to your work,<br>Praising your strength, your imperious leadership,<br>Your craft that skims the sea and wings the <br>And sends love-words all round the girdled world<br>Before these blue eyes, almost locked in sleep,<br>Open to make the dawn. Oh wonderful<br>Your power and cunning! Should we envy you<br>The triumph, the high renown, when in our arms<br>We hold all life—even you, the doer, the present,<br>And this, the ultimate future of our dreams?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look—she's asleep. Isn't she a drop of dew <br>Mirroring moonlight? Or a velvet petal <br>Dropped from the almond tree all pearly pink<br>That grows in Sahuaro Valley? Or a spring, <br>Cool, still, where all the birds of the air shall drink <br>Before it flows through the wide fields of the world, <br>The thick dark woods, to wander who knows where, <br>Love-led, love-nourished? Oh, be wise for her, <br>My brother! Smooth her flowery-scented ways— <br>We give you this to do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if you falter,<br>If, blinded by the dust and smothered in spoils, <br>You strive for trophies and forget the goal, <br>Must I not rise out of my sheltered seat <br>At last? When I can empty my arms of her, <br>Turn from the happy garden where I dwell <br>And look over the world, what do I see <br>Under the cloud-capped towers and pinnacles? <br>Cities I see where little children drudge <br>The strength of the race away; gaunt factories <br>Where girls and boys are withered at the loom,<br>The wheel, the furnace; festering tenements <br>Where babies—tiny tender things like mine— <br>Are born in filth and darkness, to endure <br>Starved little wretched lives, or die like rats <br>While their pale mothers earn a pitiful dole <br>By day and night in the one huddled room. <br>In sulphurous mines, in roaring steam-driven mills <br>Where human hearts are broken on the<br>wheel; In jails where law wreaks a self-righteous vengeance<br>On the less masterful crimes; in gaudy brothels, <br>Where daughters of the race—yes, mine and yours,<br>Once dewy in their mothers' arms like this— <br>Rot into slaves of lust; in all dark places, <br>Unaware of love, unvisited of the sun, <br>I count the agonies of our lorded world. <br>I see that delicate lovely thing called life— <br>My charge, my woman's business, God forgive me!— <br>Crushed into clay, mortared with blood and tears,<br>For modern civilization, huge sky-scraper, <br>To tower its many-windowed stories on. <br>And through those glaring windows I behold <br>A riot of waste, a sickening glut, an orgy— <br>Life turned once more to loathing and despair. <br>So, though I bear my baby in my arms, <br>Now must I tread the crowded ways of the world.<br>Help me to rise, give me your powerful hand, <br>My brother; lead me forth to do my part, <br>Too long content to rest here in my garden <br>Love-sheltered. Mea culpa—I have sinned. <br>Vast is the world, our steel-blown, power-driven world;<br>Too huge a grand machine for half the race <br>To build, and run, and guard from rust and filth,<br>While we, the other half, cling to the hearth, <br>Selfishly guard our own, and give no aid <br>Through the long heat and burden of the day.<br>Now we are summoned, for the hour is struck. <br>We have over-strained your strength, we have over-trusted <br>Your zeal. Now must we take our burden back—<br>The burden of life you bear but fitfully— <br>And nourish on warm breasts the suffering</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come, curly pearly one, my bird, <br>My primrose folding up at night/ <br>Sleep warm and tight! <br>Never a word <br>Till it is light! <br>Softly, softly, down in your bed, <br>Round little toes to round little head, <br>Sleep, sleep, my weary one, <br>Mother's dearie one!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Harriet+Monroe">Harriet Monroe</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=403115" data-title="The Woman de Harriet Monroe" data-description="Go sleep, my sweetie—rest—rest! 
Oh soft little hand on mother's breast! 
Oh soft little lips—the din's mos' gone- 
Over and done, my dearie one! 

What do I think, my brother? Look at me!
You make me laugh, sitting there solemneyed,
Full of..."></div>
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