Well, let them make What they will of their future. Maurice, for my sake And your own, put them out of your thoughts. All too brief And too broad is this life to be ruined by grief Over one human atom. Like mellowing rain, Which enriches the soil of the soul and the brain, Should the sorrow of youth be; and not like the breath Of the cyclone, which carries destruction and death. Come, Maurice, let philosophy lift you above The gloom and despair of unfortunate love. Sometimes, if we look a woe straight in the face, It loses its terrors and seems commonplace; While sorrow will follow and find if we roam. Come, help me to turn the old house into home. We have youth, health, and competence. Why should we go Out into God's world with long faces of woe? Let our pleasures have speech, let our sorrows be dumb, Let us laugh at despair and contentment will come. Let us teach earth's repiners to look through glad eyes, For the world needs the happy far more than the wise. I am one of the women whose talent and taste Lie in home-making. All else I do seems mere waste Of time and intention; but no woman can Make a house seem a home without aid of a man. He is sinew and bone, she is spirit and life. Until the veiled future shall bring you a wife, Me a mate (and both wait for us somewhere, dear brother), Let us bury old corpses and live for each other. You will write, and your great heart athrob through your pen Shall strengthen earth's weak ones with courage again. Where your epigrams fail, I will offer a pill, And doctor their bodies with "new woman" skill. (Once a wife, I will drop from my name the M. D. I hold it the truth that no woman can be An excellent wife and an excellent mother, And leave enough purpose and time for another Profession outside. And our sex was not made To jostle with men in the great marts of trade. The wage-earning women, who talk of their sphere, Have thrown the domestic machine out of gear. They point to their fast swelling ranks overjoyed; Forgetting the army of men unemployed.
The banner of Feminine "Rights," when unfurled, Means a flag of distress to the rest of the world. And poor Cupid, depressed by such follies and crimes, Sits weeping, alone, in the Land of Hard Times. The world needs wise mothers, the world needs good wives, The world needs good homes, and yet woman strives To be everything else but domestic. God's plan Was for woman to rule the whole world, _through a man_. There is nothing a woman of sweetness and tact Can not do without personal effort or act. She needs but infuse lover, husband or son With her own subtle spirit, and lo! it is done. Though the man is unconscious, full oft, of the cause, And fancies himself the sole maker of laws. Well, let him. The cannon, no doubt, is the prouder For not knowing its noise is produced by the powder. Yet this is the law: _Who can love, can command_.) But I wander too far from the subject in hand, Which is, your home coming. Make haste, dear; I find More need every day of your counseling mind. I work well in harness, but poorly alone. Until that bright day when Fate brings us our own, Let us labor together. I see many ways, Many tasks, for the use of our talents and days. Your wisdom shall better the workingmen's lives, While I will look after their daughters and wives, And teach them to cook without waste; for, indeed, It is knowledge like this which the poor people need, Not the stuff taught in schools. You shall help them to think, While I show them what they can eat and can drink With least cost, and most pleasure and benefit. Please Write me and say you will come, dear Maurice. Home, sister, and duty are all waiting here; Who keeps close to duty finds pleasure dwells near.