Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
Richard Henry Stoddard 1825–1903
Richard Henry Stoddard161 Without and Within
T
Go stabbing about with their icy spears;
The sharp hail rattles against the panes,
And melts on my cheek like tears.
But some of us must be, early and late; We need n’t ask who, for don’t we know It has all been settled by Fate? Her dresses, her jewels, or what she demands: The work of the world must be done by man, Or why has he brawny hands? I think of the chambers warm and bright, The nests where these delicate birds of ours Are folding their wings to-night. I catch a glimpse of the life they lead: Some sew, some sing, others dress for the ball, While others, fair students, read. She sits at my table now, pouring her tea; Does she think of me as I hurry home, Hungry and wet? Not she. In a thoughtless, dreamy, nonchalant way; Her hands are white as the virgin rose That she wore on her wedding day. The badge of the Ledger, the mark of Trade; But the money I give her is clean enough, In spite of the way it is made. Over day-book and cash-book, Bought and Sold; My brain is dizzy with anxious thought, My skin is as sallow as gold. Still fresh in her cheek? My roses are flown. It lies in a nutshell—why do I ask? A woman’s life is her own. Then goes to her music, blithe as a bird; She reads it at sight, and the language, too, Though I know never a word. Or embroiders me slippers (always too small,) Nets silken purses (for me to fill,) Often does nothing at all Or reading my letters—she ’d better read me. Even now, while I am freezing with cold, She is cosily sipping her tea. At the sight of a roaring fire once more: She must wait, I think, till I thaw myself, For the nightly kiss at the door. To warm up my blood and soothe my mind; Then a little music, for even I Like music—when I have dined. And feel her behind patting my head; Or drawing the little one on my knee, Chat till the hour for bed. Till the misty panes are roughened with sleet; I can see no more: shall I never hear The welcome sound of his feet? Tramping along with a weary tread, And wish he were here by the cheery fire, Or I were there in his stead. And stare in the fire with a troubled mind; The glow of the coals is bright in my face, But my shadow is dark behind. The tie that binds and the wrongs that part, And long to utter in burning words What I feel to-night in my heart. No praise of myself, or my sisterhood; But—something that women understand— By men never understood. Little matter, alas, who is right or wrong, She goes to the wall. “She is weak,” they say— It is that which makes them strong. He has, as he should, a sturdier frame, And he labors early and late for me, But I—I could do the same. The world is wide, and the workers few; But the work of the world belongs to man, There is nothing for woman to do! A husband to love, and children to bear, The softer virtues, the social arts,— In short, a life without care! Of our lives and feelings when they are away? Our household duties, our petty tasks, The nothings that waste the day? That their homes are pleasant; they seek their ease: One takes a wife to flatter his pride, Another to keep his keys. In a masculine way, as they love their wine: But the soul of woman needs something more, Or it suffers at times like mine. In word or deed, for he loves me well; But I fear he thinks me as weak as the rest— (And I may be, who can tell?) For I live at best but a restless life; Yet he may, for they say the kindest men Grow tired of a sickly wife. If not for my love, and my womanly fears, At least for your child. But I hear his step— He must not find me in tears.
Will he never come? I have watched for him