INSIGHTSirs, when you pity us, I sayYou waste your pity. Let it stay,Well corked and stored upon your shelves,Until you need it for yourselves.We do appreciate God’s thoughtIn forming you, before He broughtUs into life. His art was crude,But oh! so virile in its rude,Large, elemental strength; and thenHe learned His trade in making men,Learned how to mix and mould the clayAnd fashion in a finer way.How fine that skilful way can beYou need but lift your eyes to see;And we are glad God placed you thereTo lift your eyes and find us fair.Apprentice labour though you were,He made you great enough to stirThe best and deepest depths of us,And we are glad He made you thus.Aye! we are glad of many things;God strung our hearts with such fine stringsThe least breath moves them, and we hearMusic where silence greets your ear.We suffer so? But women’s souls,Like violet-powder dropped on coals,Give forth their best in anguish. OhThe subtle secrets that we knowOf joy in sorrow, strange delightsOf ecstasy in pain-filled nights,And mysteries of gain in lossKnown but to Christ upon the cross!Our tears are pitiful to you?Look how the heaven-reflecting dewDissolves its life in tears. The sandMeanwhile lies hard upon the strand.How could your pity find a placeFor us, the mothers of the race?Men may be fathers unaware,So poor the title is you wear.But mothers—who that crown adornsKnows all its mingled blooms and thorns,And she whose feet that pain hath trodHath walked upon the heights with God.No, offer us not pity’s cup.There is no looking down or upBetween us; eye looks straight in eye:Born equals, so we live and die.
Sirs, when you pity us, I sayYou waste your pity. Let it stay,Well corked and stored upon your shelves,Until you need it for yourselves.
We do appreciate God’s thoughtIn forming you, before He broughtUs into life. His art was crude,But oh! so virile in its rude,
Large, elemental strength; and thenHe learned His trade in making men,Learned how to mix and mould the clayAnd fashion in a finer way.
How fine that skilful way can beYou need but lift your eyes to see;And we are glad God placed you thereTo lift your eyes and find us fair.
Apprentice labour though you were,He made you great enough to stirThe best and deepest depths of us,And we are glad He made you thus.
Aye! we are glad of many things;God strung our hearts with such fine stringsThe least breath moves them, and we hearMusic where silence greets your ear.
We suffer so? But women’s souls,Like violet-powder dropped on coals,Give forth their best in anguish. OhThe subtle secrets that we know
Of joy in sorrow, strange delightsOf ecstasy in pain-filled nights,And mysteries of gain in lossKnown but to Christ upon the cross!
Our tears are pitiful to you?Look how the heaven-reflecting dewDissolves its life in tears. The sandMeanwhile lies hard upon the strand.
How could your pity find a placeFor us, the mothers of the race?Men may be fathers unaware,So poor the title is you wear.
But mothers—who that crown adornsKnows all its mingled blooms and thorns,And she whose feet that pain hath trodHath walked upon the heights with God.
No, offer us not pity’s cup.There is no looking down or upBetween us; eye looks straight in eye:Born equals, so we live and die.