Women and the OppressedBy Elizabeth Barrett Browning(From “Aurora Leigh.”)
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
(From “Aurora Leigh.”)
I call you hardTo a general suffering. Here’s the world half blindWith intellectual light, half brutalizedWith civilization, having caught the plagueIn silks from Tarsus, shrieking East and WestAlong a thousand railroads, mad with painAnd sin too!.... does one woman of you all,(You who weep easily) grow pale to seeThis tiger shake his cage?—does one of youStand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls,And pine and die because of the great sumOf universal anguish?—Show me a tearWet as Cordelia’s, in eyes bright as yours,Because the world is mad. You cannot count,That you should weep for this account, not you!You weep for what you know. A red-haired childSick in a fever, if you touch him once,Though but so little as with a finger-tip,Will set you weeping; but a million sick—You could as soon weep for the rule of threeOr compound fractions. Therefore, this same world,Uncomprehended by you.—Women as you are,Mere women, personal and passionate,You give us doting mothers, and perfect wives,Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!We get no Christ from you,—and verilyWe shall not get a poet, in my mind.
I call you hardTo a general suffering. Here’s the world half blindWith intellectual light, half brutalizedWith civilization, having caught the plagueIn silks from Tarsus, shrieking East and WestAlong a thousand railroads, mad with painAnd sin too!.... does one woman of you all,(You who weep easily) grow pale to seeThis tiger shake his cage?—does one of youStand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls,And pine and die because of the great sumOf universal anguish?—Show me a tearWet as Cordelia’s, in eyes bright as yours,Because the world is mad. You cannot count,That you should weep for this account, not you!You weep for what you know. A red-haired childSick in a fever, if you touch him once,Though but so little as with a finger-tip,Will set you weeping; but a million sick—You could as soon weep for the rule of threeOr compound fractions. Therefore, this same world,Uncomprehended by you.—Women as you are,Mere women, personal and passionate,You give us doting mothers, and perfect wives,Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!We get no Christ from you,—and verilyWe shall not get a poet, in my mind.
I call you hardTo a general suffering. Here’s the world half blindWith intellectual light, half brutalizedWith civilization, having caught the plagueIn silks from Tarsus, shrieking East and WestAlong a thousand railroads, mad with painAnd sin too!.... does one woman of you all,(You who weep easily) grow pale to seeThis tiger shake his cage?—does one of youStand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls,And pine and die because of the great sumOf universal anguish?—Show me a tearWet as Cordelia’s, in eyes bright as yours,Because the world is mad. You cannot count,That you should weep for this account, not you!You weep for what you know. A red-haired childSick in a fever, if you touch him once,Though but so little as with a finger-tip,Will set you weeping; but a million sick—You could as soon weep for the rule of threeOr compound fractions. Therefore, this same world,Uncomprehended by you.—Women as you are,Mere women, personal and passionate,You give us doting mothers, and perfect wives,Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!We get no Christ from you,—and verilyWe shall not get a poet, in my mind.
I call you hard
To a general suffering. Here’s the world half blind
With intellectual light, half brutalized
With civilization, having caught the plague
In silks from Tarsus, shrieking East and West
Along a thousand railroads, mad with pain
And sin too!.... does one woman of you all,
(You who weep easily) grow pale to see
This tiger shake his cage?—does one of you
Stand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls,
And pine and die because of the great sum
Of universal anguish?—Show me a tear
Wet as Cordelia’s, in eyes bright as yours,
Because the world is mad. You cannot count,
That you should weep for this account, not you!
You weep for what you know. A red-haired child
Sick in a fever, if you touch him once,
Though but so little as with a finger-tip,
Will set you weeping; but a million sick—
You could as soon weep for the rule of three
Or compound fractions. Therefore, this same world,
Uncomprehended by you.—Women as you are,
Mere women, personal and passionate,
You give us doting mothers, and perfect wives,
Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!
We get no Christ from you,—and verily
We shall not get a poet, in my mind.