I.
THE NIGHT is dark, and the winter winds | |
| Go stabbing about with their icy spears; | |
| The sharp hail rattles against the panes, | |
| And melts on my cheek like tears. | |
| |
| 'T is a terrible night to be out of doors, | 5 |
| But some of us must be, early and late; | |
| We need n't ask who, for don't we know | |
| It has all been settled by Fate? | |
| |
| Not woman, but man. Give woman her flowers, | |
| Her dresses, her jewels, or what she demands: | 10 |
| The work of the world must be done by man, | |
| Or why has he brawny hands? | |
| |
| As I feel my way in the dark and cold, | |
| I think of the chambers warm and bright, | |
| The nests where these delicate birds of ours | 15 |
| Are folding their wings to-night. | |
| |
| Through the luminous windows, above and below, | |
| I catch a glimpse of the life they lead: | |
| Some sew, some sing, others dress for the ball, | |
| While others, fair students, read. | 20 |
| |
| There 's the little lady who bears my name, | |
| She sits at my table now, pouring her tea; | |
| Does she think of me as I hurry home, | |
| Hungry and wet? Not she. | |
| |
| She helps herself to the sugar and cream | 25 |
| In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant way; | |
| Her hands are white as the virgin rose | |
| That she wore on her wedding day. | |
| |
| My clumsy fingers are stained with ink, | |
| The badge of the Ledger, the mark of Trade; | 30 |
| But the money I give her is clean enough, | |
| In spite of the way it is made. | |
| |
| I wear out my life in the counting-room | |
| Over day-book and cash-book, Bought and Sold; | |
| My brain is dizzy with anxious thought, | 35 |
| My skin is as sallow as gold. | |
| |
| How does she keep the roses of youth | |
| Still fresh in her cheek? My roses are flown. | |
| It lies in a nutshell—why do I ask? | |
| A woman's life is her own. | 40 |
| |
| She gives me a kiss when we part for the day, | |
| Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird; | |
| She reads it at sight, and the language, too, | |
| Though I know never a word. | |
| |
| She sews a little, makes collars and sleeves, | 45 |
| Or embroiders me slippers (always too small,) | |
| Nets silken purses (for me to fill,) | |
| Often does nothing at all | |
| |
| But dream in her chamber, holding a flower, | |
| Or reading my letters—she 'd better read me. | 50 |
| Even now, while I am freezing with cold, | |
| She is cosily sipping her tea. | |
| |
| If I ever reach home I shall laugh aloud | |
| At the sight of a roaring fire once more: | |
| She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, | 55 |
| For the nightly kiss at the door. | |
| |
| I 'll have with my dinner a bottle of port, | |
| To warm up my blood and soothe my mind; | |
| Then a little music, for even I | |
| Like music—when I have dined. | 60 |
| |
| I 'll smoke a pipe in the easy-chair, | |
| And feel her behind patting my head; | |
| Or drawing the little one on my knee, | |
| Chat till the hour for bed. | |
| |
II
Will he never come? I have watched for him | 65 |
| Till the misty panes are roughened with sleet; | |
| I can see no more: shall I never hear | |
| The welcome sound of his feet? | |
| |
| I think of him in the lonesome night, | |
| Tramping along with a weary tread, | 70 |
| And wish he were here by the cheery fire, | |
| Or I were there in his stead. | |
| |
| I sit by the grate, and hark for his step, | |
| And stare in the fire with a troubled mind; | |
| The glow of the coals is bright in my face, | 75 |
| But my shadow is dark behind. | |
| |
| I think of woman, and think of man, | |
| The tie that binds and the wrongs that part, | |
| And long to utter in burning words | |
| What I feel to-night in my heart. | 80 |
| |
| No weak complaint of the man I love, | |
| No praise of myself, or my sisterhood; | |
| But—something that women understand— | |
| By men never understood. | |
| |
| Their natures jar in a thousand things; | 85 |
| Little matter, alas, who is right or wrong, | |
| She goes to the wall. "She is weak," they say— | |
| It is that which makes them strong. | |
| |
| Wherein am I weaker than Arthur, pray? | |
| He has, as he should, a sturdier frame, | 90 |
| And he labors early and late for me, | |
| But I—I could do the same. | |
| |
| My hands are willing, my brain is clear, | |
| The world is wide, and the workers few; | |
| But the work of the world belongs to man, | 95 |
| There is nothing for woman to do! | |
| |
| Yes, she has the holy duties of home, | |
| A husband to love, and children to bear, | |
| The softer virtues, the social arts,— | |
| In short, a life without care! | 100 |
| |
| So our masters say. But what do they know | |
| Of our lives and feelings when they are away? | |
| Our household duties, our petty tasks, | |
| The nothings that waste the day? | |
| |
| Nay, what do they care? 'T is enough for them | 105 |
| That their homes are pleasant; they seek their ease: | |
| One takes a wife to flatter his pride, | |
| Another to keep his keys. | |
| |
| They say they love us; perhaps they do, | |
| In a masculine way, as they love their wine: | 110 |
| But the soul of woman needs something more, | |
| Or it suffers at times like mine. | |
| |
| Not that Arthur is ever unkind | |
| In word or deed, for he loves me well; | |
| But I fear he thinks me as weak as the rest— | 115 |
| (And I may be, who can tell?) | |
| |
| I should die if he changed, or loved me less, | |
| For I live at best but a restless life; | |
| Yet he may, for they say the kindest men | |
| Grow tired of a sickly wife. | 120 |
| |
| O, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life, | |
| If not for my love, and my womanly fears, | |
| At least for your child. But I hear his step— | |
| He must not find me in tears. | |
