WHAT WE NEEDWhat does our country need? No armies standingWith sabres gleaming ready for the fight;Not increased navies, skilful and commanding,To bound the waters with an iron might;Not haughty men with glutted purses tryingTo purchase souls, and keep the power of place;Not jewelled dolls with one another vyingFor palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,With that rare meekness, born of gentleness;Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,The women whom all little children bless;Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,With finest scorn for all things low and mean;Women who hold the names of wife and motherFar nobler than the title of a queen.Oh! these are they who mould the men of story,These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,Who, worn and weary, ask no greater gloryThan making some young soul the home of truth;Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowingThe seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growingAnd weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;Women who do not hold the gift of beautyAs some rare treasure to be bought and sold.But guard it as a precious aid to duty—The outer framing of the inner gold;Women who, low above their cradles bending,Let flattery’s voice go by, and give no heed,While their pure prayers like incense are ascendingTheseare our country’s pride, our country’s need,
What does our country need? No armies standingWith sabres gleaming ready for the fight;Not increased navies, skilful and commanding,To bound the waters with an iron might;Not haughty men with glutted purses tryingTo purchase souls, and keep the power of place;Not jewelled dolls with one another vyingFor palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,With that rare meekness, born of gentleness;Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,The women whom all little children bless;Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,With finest scorn for all things low and mean;Women who hold the names of wife and motherFar nobler than the title of a queen.
Oh! these are they who mould the men of story,These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,Who, worn and weary, ask no greater gloryThan making some young soul the home of truth;Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowingThe seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growingAnd weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;
Women who do not hold the gift of beautyAs some rare treasure to be bought and sold.But guard it as a precious aid to duty—The outer framing of the inner gold;Women who, low above their cradles bending,Let flattery’s voice go by, and give no heed,While their pure prayers like incense are ascendingTheseare our country’s pride, our country’s need,