The Working Woman SpeaksBy Emily Taplin Royle(In “The Woman’s Journal.” Mrs. John Martin, speaking at an anti-suffrage meeting in New York, says that women normally need a great deal of solitude, quiet and sleep and they suffer physically, mentally and morally, if they do not get it.)
By Emily Taplin Royle
(In “The Woman’s Journal.” Mrs. John Martin, speaking at an anti-suffrage meeting in New York, says that women normally need a great deal of solitude, quiet and sleep and they suffer physically, mentally and morally, if they do not get it.)
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”I stand by the roaring loomAnd watch the growth of the silken threads,That glow in the bare, gray room.I hurry through darkling streetsIn the chill of the wintry day,That women who talk from their cloistered easeMay rustle in colors gay.“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”In the dripping, humid airI whiten the flimsy lacesThat women may be fair;I clothe my orphan childrenWith the price my bare hands yield,That the idle women may walk as fairAs the lilies of the field.“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”Is it given to me today,When I march in the ranks with those who fightTo keep the wolf at bay?Do my daughters rest in peaceWhere a myriad needles yieldTheir bitter bread or a sheet of flame,And the rest of the Potter’s Field?“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”To factory, shop and mill,The feet of the working women go,While their leisure sisters stillBoast of the home they have never earned,Of the ease we can never share,And bid us go back to the depths again,Like Lazarus to his lair.
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”I stand by the roaring loomAnd watch the growth of the silken threads,That glow in the bare, gray room.I hurry through darkling streetsIn the chill of the wintry day,That women who talk from their cloistered easeMay rustle in colors gay.“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”In the dripping, humid airI whiten the flimsy lacesThat women may be fair;I clothe my orphan childrenWith the price my bare hands yield,That the idle women may walk as fairAs the lilies of the field.“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”Is it given to me today,When I march in the ranks with those who fightTo keep the wolf at bay?Do my daughters rest in peaceWhere a myriad needles yieldTheir bitter bread or a sheet of flame,And the rest of the Potter’s Field?“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”To factory, shop and mill,The feet of the working women go,While their leisure sisters stillBoast of the home they have never earned,Of the ease we can never share,And bid us go back to the depths again,Like Lazarus to his lair.
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”I stand by the roaring loomAnd watch the growth of the silken threads,That glow in the bare, gray room.I hurry through darkling streetsIn the chill of the wintry day,That women who talk from their cloistered easeMay rustle in colors gay.
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”
I stand by the roaring loom
And watch the growth of the silken threads,
That glow in the bare, gray room.
I hurry through darkling streets
In the chill of the wintry day,
That women who talk from their cloistered ease
May rustle in colors gay.
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”In the dripping, humid airI whiten the flimsy lacesThat women may be fair;I clothe my orphan childrenWith the price my bare hands yield,That the idle women may walk as fairAs the lilies of the field.
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”
In the dripping, humid air
I whiten the flimsy laces
That women may be fair;
I clothe my orphan children
With the price my bare hands yield,
That the idle women may walk as fair
As the lilies of the field.
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”Is it given to me today,When I march in the ranks with those who fightTo keep the wolf at bay?Do my daughters rest in peaceWhere a myriad needles yieldTheir bitter bread or a sheet of flame,And the rest of the Potter’s Field?
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”
Is it given to me today,
When I march in the ranks with those who fight
To keep the wolf at bay?
Do my daughters rest in peace
Where a myriad needles yield
Their bitter bread or a sheet of flame,
And the rest of the Potter’s Field?
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”To factory, shop and mill,The feet of the working women go,While their leisure sisters stillBoast of the home they have never earned,Of the ease we can never share,And bid us go back to the depths again,Like Lazarus to his lair.
“Solitude, quiet and sleep!”
To factory, shop and mill,
The feet of the working women go,
While their leisure sisters still
Boast of the home they have never earned,
Of the ease we can never share,
And bid us go back to the depths again,
Like Lazarus to his lair.