Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Page 191
These old-world man-made chimeras,
By some geologic eras.
Long the life stream held its own,
Hers alone.
That first form, through ages dim,
Slowly has developed him.
Late he came, with little stir,
As God’s last best gift to her.
What he thinks may guide his acts,
But it does not alter facts.
THE HUMAN LAW
We watch the solemn courses of the stars,
And feel the swell of reverence and praise,
Even though some may fall:...
We watch the birds,
The small birds, finding each her food and mate
Nest-building, happy, busy, free from care,
Even though some may starve:...
THE PURPOSE
Serene she sat, full grown in human power,
Established in the service of the world.
Full-hearted, rich, strong with the age’s life,
Wise with the womanhood of centuries,
With broad still brows and deep eyes lit beneath
With fire of inextinguishable love,
In beauty which the study of a life
Would fail to measure — beauty as of hills
Or the heart-stilling wonder of the sea.
Then came her lovers, awed and passionate,
With naught to offer she had not as much
Save only — manhood. Lovers made by God
To offer to her final power of choice
Their natural tribute of diverging gifts,
The man’s inherent variance of growth,
That she, by choosing, build a better race.
Theirs the resistless longing to fulfill
Their nature’s primal law at any cost,
The one great purpose of their parted life;
Love their first cause, love their determined end.
So she, from ardent, emulous appeal,
After the inner ruling of her heart
Chose him of all best mated to herself,
Best qualified to glorify The Child —
For this was she made woman — not for him.
THE PRIMAL POWER
Would ye plant the world with new-made men?
A race new-born, a race unstained?
Clothed in flesh that hath no flaw,
One with nature, one with law,
Strong-souled, clear-brained?
This may motherhood achieve,
Full-grown mothers brave and free,
Splendid bodies trained and strong,
Hearts that ache for human wrong,
Eyes that can see.
Learning new their primal power,
A reign forgot, a crown disowned —
Rising from their prison blind,
Pets and servants of mankind —
Re-born, re-throned.
Theirs the power beyond appeal
To choose the good, reject the base;
So shall all degenerate blood
Die, forbidden fatherhood —
So rise our race!
TWO PRAYERS
Only for these I pray,
Pray with assurance strong;
Light to discover the way,
Power to follow it long.
Let me have Light to see,
Light to be sure and know,
When the road is clear to me
Willingly I go.
Let me have Power to do,
Power of the brain and nerve,
Though the task is heavy and new
Willingly I will serve.
My prayers are lesser than three,
Nothing I pray but two;
Let me have light to see,
Let me have Power to do.
WHATEVER IS
Whatever is we only know
As in our minds we find it so;
No staring fact is half so clear
As one dim, preconceived idea —
No matter how the fact may glow.
Vainly may Truth her trumpet blow
To stir our minds; like heavy dough
They stick to what they think — won’t hear
Whatever is.
Our ancient myths in solid row
Stand up — we simply have to go
And choke each fiction old and dear
Before the modest facts appear;
Then we may grasp, reluctant, slow,
Whatever is.
WINGS
A sense of wings —
Soft downy wings and fair —
Great wings that whistle as they sweep
Along the still gulfs — empty, deep —
Of thin blue air.
Doves’ wings that follow,
Doves’ wings that fold,
Doves’ wings that flutter down
To nestle in your hold.
Doves’ wings that settle,
Doves’ wings that rest,
Doves’ wings that brood so warm
Above the little nest.
Larks’ wings that rise and rise,
Climbing the rosy skies —
Fold and drop down
To birdlings brown.
Light wings of wood-birds, that once scarce believes
Moved in the leaves.
The quick, shy flight
Of wings that flee in fright —
A start as swift as light —
Only the shaken air
To tell that wings were there.
Broad wings that beat for many days
Above the land wastes and the water ways;
Beating steadily on and on,
Through dark and cold,
Through storms untold,
Till the far sun and summer land is won.
And wings —
Wings that unfold
With such wide sweep before your would-be hold —
Such glittering sweep of whiteness — sun on snow —
Such mighty plumes — strong-ribbed, strong-webbed —
strong-knit to go
From earth to heaven!
Hear the air flow back
In their wide track!
Feel the sweet wind these wings displace
Beat on your face!
See the great arc of light like rising rockets trail
They leave in leaving —
They avail —
These wings — for flight!
WORSHIP
How does it feel? —
The drawing of the magnet on the steel?
All else gives way;
To rivets bold, no bars delay.
Called in that overwhelming hour,
From far and near they fly and cling.
Allied, united, christening;
And the great pulsing currents flow
Through each small scattered scrap below.
Scattered no more.
One with that all compelling core;
One absolute, one all alive with power.
How does it feel? —
The swift obedient utmost flight
Of radiant sky-wide waves of light,
Pancouriens of the central sun
Crossing a million miles as one —
Still going — going —
Limitless joy that needs no knowing
Each last least flickering ray
One with the Heart of Day.
THE ARTIST
Here one of us is born, made as a lens,
Or else to lens-shape cruelly smooth-ground,
To gather light, the light that shines on all,
In concentrated flame it glows, pure fire,
With light a hundredfold, more light for all.
Come and receive, take with the eye or ear,
Take and be filled, illumined, overflowed;
Then go and shine again, your whole work lit,
Your whole heart warm and luminous and glad;
Go shine again — and
spread the gladness wide;
Happy the lens! To gather skies of light
And focus it, making the splendor there!
Happy all we who are enriched therewith,
And redistribute ever, swift and far.
The artist is the intermediate lens
Of God, and so best gives Him to the world,
Intensified, interpreted, to us.
MY VIEW, 1881.
From my high window the outlooker sees
The whole wide southern sky,
Fort Hill is in the distance smiling green,
With ordinary houses thick between,
And scanty passers by.
Our street is flat, ungraded, little used,
The sidewalks grown with grass,
And just across, a fenceless open lot,
Covered with ash-heaps, where the sun shines hot
On bits of broken glass.
It’s hard on Nature, blotting her fair face
With such discourteous deeds,
But one short season gives her time enough
To softly cover up the outlines rough
With merciful thick weeds.
Then numerous most limited back-yards,
One thick with fruit trees, overgrown with vines,
But most of them are rather bare and small,
With board and picket fences, running all
In parallel straight lines.
Hardly a brilliant prospect you will think,
The common houses, scanty passers by,
Bare lot thick-strown with cinder-heaps and shards,
And small monotonous township of back-yards —
Stop — you forget the sky!
LITTLE LEAFY BROTHERS
Little leafy brothers! You can feel
Warmth o’ the sun,
Cool sap streams run,
The slow soft nuzzling creep
Of roots sent deep,
And a close-anchored flowing
In winds smooth blowing.
And in the spring! The spring!
When the stars sing —
The world’s love in you grows
Into the rose.
Little hairy brothers! You can feel
The kind sun too;
Winds play with you,
Water is live delight —
In your own swift flight
Of wings or leaping feet
Life rushes sweet —
And in the Spring! the spring!
When the stars sing —
And in the spring! the spring!
When the stars sing —
The world’s love stirs you first
To wild sweet thirst,
Mad combat glorious, and so
To what you know
Of love in living. Yes, to you first came
The joy past name
Of interchange — the small mouth pressed
To the warm breast!
But O the human brothers! We can feel
All, all below
These small ones know —
Earth fair and good,
The bubbling flood
Of life a-growing — in us multiplied
As man spreads wide;
Not into leaves alone,
Nor flesh and bone,
But roof and wall and wheel
Of stone and steel;
Soft foliage and gorgeous bloom
Of murmuring loom;
And fruit of joy — o’erburdened heart
Poured forth in art!
We can not only leap in the sun,
Wrestle and run,
But know the music-measured beat
Of dancing feet,
The interplay of hands — we hold
Delight of doing, myriad-fold.
Joy of the rose we know —
To bloom — to grow;
Joy of the beast we prove
To strive — to move;
And in the spring! the spring!
When the stars sing —
Wide gladness of all living men
Comes back again.
A conscious universe at rest
In one’s own breast!
The world’s love! Wholly ours,
Through the breathing flowers,
Through all the living tumult of the wood
In us made good,
Through centuries that rise and fall —
We hold it all!
The world’s love! Given words at last to speak,
Though yet so weak.
The world’s love! Given hands that hold so much —
Lips that may touch —
The world’s love! Sweet — it lies
In your dear eyes!
IN ALABAMA WOODS
The wet, dark woods — monotonous tall pines,
The heavy velvet mat of brown below,
And straight shafts rising, sodden black with rain,
In clean, long lines.
From stem to stem, a high-hung solemn pall,
Thick clouds of blue-green needles cover all;
But see, across the gloom, again! again!
The dogwood’s flame of snow!
OUT OF DOORS
Just to be out of doors! So still! So green!
With unbreathed air, illimitable, clean,
With soft, sweet scent of happy growing things,
The leaves’ soft flutter, sound of sudden wings,
The far faint hills, the water wide between.
Breast of the great earth-mother! Here we lean
With no conventions hard to intervene,
Content, with the contentment nature brings,
Just to be out of doors.
And under all the feeling half foreseen
Of what this lovely world will come to mean
To all of us when the uncounted strings
Are keyed aright, and one clear music rings,
In all our hearts. Joy universal, keen,
Just to be out of doors.
THE SANDS
It runs — it runs — the hourglass turning,
Dark sands glooming, bright sands burning,
I turn, and turn, with heavy or hopeful hands,
So must I turn as long as the Voice commands,
But I lose all count of the hours in watching the sliding sands.
Or fast, or slow, it ceases turning,
Ceases the flow, or bright or burning —
“What have you done with the hours?” the voice demands;
What can I say of eager or careless hands?
I had forgotten the hours in watching the sliding sands.
THE BAD LITTLE COO-BIRD
In the morning, in the bed,
She hugged her baby close and said,
“You’re my little coo-bird, and this is our nest —
“My little Coo-bird, that I love the best —
“Now coo! little coo-bird, coo!”
And what did that bad baby do?
“Coo,” said the mother soft and still —
Piped little daughter loud and shrill —
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
“No! no!” said the mother, “no!”
I do not like it so!
I want no cock-a-biddys in my bed!”
And she brooded her nestling warm and said,
“Now coo! little coo-bird, coo!”
And what did that bad baby do?
“Coo,” said the mother soft and still —
Piped little daughter loud and shrill —
“To-whoo! To-whit! — to-whoo!”
“No! no!” said the mother, “no!”
I do not like it so!
Such fowls as owls I do not love —
Where is my little cooing dove?
“Now coo! little coo-bird, coo!”
And what did that dear baby do?
“Coo,” said the mother soft and slow —
Laughed little daughter sweet and low —
“Coo!
Coo-oo! Coo!”
A WALK, WALK, WALK
I once went out for a walk, walk, walk,
For a walk beside the sea;
And all I carried to eat, eat, eat
Was a jar of ginger-snaps so sweet,
And a jug of ginger tea.
For I am fond of cinnamon pie,
And peppermint puddings too,
And I dearly love to make, make, make,
A mighty mass of mustard cake,
And nutmeg beer to brew.
And all I carried to drink, drink, drink,
That long and weary way,
Was a dozen little glasses
Of boiled molasses
On a Cochin China tray.
For I am fond of the sugar of the grape,
And the sugar of the maple tree,
But I always eat
the sugar of the beet
When I’m in company.
And all I carried to read, read, read,
For a half an hour or so,
Was the works of Dumas, Pere et fils,
And Milman’s Rome, and Grote on Greece,
And the poems of Longfellow.
For I am fond of Hunting the Snark,
And the Romaunt of the Rose,
And I never go to bed
Without Webster at my head,
And Worcester at my toes.
AUNT ELIZA
Seven days had Aunt Eliza
Read the Boston Advertiser,
Seven days on end;
But in spite of her persistance
Still she met with some resistance
From her bosom friend.
Thomas Brown, the Undertaker
Who declared he’d have to shake her,
Daily called at ten;
Asking if dear Aunt’s condition
Would allow of his admission,
With his corps of men.
Aunt Eliza heard him pleading,
Ceased an instant from her reading,
Softly downward stole;
Soon broke up the conversation,
Punctuating Brown’s oration,
With a shower of coal.
A DREAM OF GOLD
He sat alone, encumbered with his Gold
Alone beside the border of the lake,
And far across the water’s shimmering bed
He saw a lady in a little boat,
A Lady lovely as a summer’s dream,
Dreamed in the depths of mild full mooned night.
The lady waited till the middle night,
For she had fell designs upon his gold,
And meant to linger till he fell to dream,