 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
March, 18—
When I remember the way we girls were wont to talk
Up in our rooms at night, or out on the daily walk,
It seems like an unreal echo, ever so far away
From the clear realm of nature, and light of the sun and the day.
Yet it sounded to us, at the time, like absolute reason and good,
As we chattered of woman's rights, and babbled in wrathful mood
Of Maries, thoughtful and wise, that often were met at school,
Changed into careful Marthas under a husband's rule,
Heedless of mental culture, losing their nimble wits,
To be housemaids dusting the rooms, or cookmaids turning the spits.
Winnie was great on that—I thought she was eloquent even,
As the small face kindled up with a light, as it were, from heaven,
Vowing the wife became a traitor to woman in this,
Betraying a noble cause for a petting word or a kiss;
Wronging her husband, too, by giving a lower aim
Of self-indulgence to life, which he knew not at home till she came.
What greater wrong could she do him than teach him only to care
For dainties, and kickshaws, and slippers, and naps in the easy chair?—
But Nature is more than Logic, and wedlock is more than we
Dreamed of then in our folly; and great is the change now in me:
Motherhood, if it should come, will work more wonders still,
For love it is all in all, and it does whatsoever it will;
Dusting, darning, drudging, nothing is great or small,
Nothing is mean or irksome, love will hallow it all;
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And all my pleasure is gone if he be heavy and sad.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |