Woman—The Poet

^{“The greatest female poet,” said a gentleman friend to me, “has fallen below our mediocre men.”}

Tell me not, proud man! that woman 
   Never yet hath wrought her name,
With the golden threads of Genius, 
   Topmost, on the scrolls of fame!

That the strongest, loftiest effort, 
   Of the greatest woman’s soul,
Hath but half way climbed the mountain, 
   Hath but midway reached the goal;—

There, beside the weaker brothers, 
   In the shadows cold and high,
She has thrown her withering laurels, 
   And hath laid her down to die;

While above her, in the sunbeams, 
   Homer, Milton, Shakespeare bask,
And with mocking voices ever, 
   Tell her of her hopeless task.

      *            *            *            *   

Oh! there is a glorious poem, 
   In each earnest, woman-heart,
Struggling for a mighty utt’rance,
   Struggling to become a part

Of the never-ending drama, 
   Acting on Life’s fitful stage,—
Hourly, daily, monthly, yearly,—
   Love and hope on every page.

Think ye not, because she’s plodding, 
   Plodding duty’s daily round,
That no glowing lines of beauty 
   In her footsteps may be found.

When she giveth meat in season,
   To her household, morn and night;
When she giveth ease to suff’ring,
   Or to darkness bringeth light;—

While she plieth broom and duster, 
   Needle, scissors, here and there,
Leaves she not a glow, a gladness—
   Do not all things grow more fair

      *            *            *            *   

Mark, proud man, the patient mother, 
   Bending o’er the cradle low;
List ye to her stirring heart-songs,
   Improvised in love-tones low.

She is writing, ever writing, 
   Poems, earnest, true, and strong,
On that fair, unsullied life-page, 
   Nestled snowy downs among.

She is writing, ever writing, 
   Love all holy holds her pen.
Will her lofty aspirations
   E’er be reached by mortal men?

Can the creature she is forming 
   Soar beyond her earnest thought,
Or produce one trace of beauty 
   Which her soul hath not inwrought?

She is writing, ever writing;—
   Busy day or quiet night,
Finds her pen still poised and ready, 
   Some great poet-thought to write.

Here a line of love and beauty, 
   There a touch sublimely true,
Now a stanza breathing duty,—
   Ever marking something new;

Till, at last, her work completed, 
   Like a regal flower unfurled,
Every petal fresh and glorious, 
   Bursts her Poem on the world.

Bursts to live and glow forever,—
   Shedding fragrance o’er the soul,
Gathering power, and strength, and wisdom, 
   While the eternal years shall roll.

Bursts to live and glow forever, 
   Live above the earth-chained clod,
Drawing all things human onward, 
   Upward to the throne of God.

Oh! what living, breathing Poems, 
   Now are echoing through the land,
Written from the heart of woman, 
   While God held her trembling hand.

What were Homer, Milton, Shakespeare,
   All who’ve ever near’d Fame’s goal,
But th’ inspired, the living Poems
   Of a loving mother’s soul!

Man may form the grand Ideal, 
   And lay down the glorious plan;
But the woman’s work is real—
   ’Tis the mother makes the man.*

* “Men are what their mothers made them.” —R. W. Emerson