Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Page 176
That climb so wantonly.
Up and up till you look to see
Along the cloud-kissed top
The great hill-breakers curve and comb
In crumbling lines of falling foam
Before they settle and drop.
Down and down, with the shuddering sweep
Of the sea-wave’s glassy wall,
You sink with a plunge that takes your breath,
A thrill that stirreth and quickeneth,
Like the great line steamer’s fall.
We have laid our streets by the square and line,
We have built by the line and square;
But the strong hill-rises arch below
And force the houses to curve and flow
In lines of beauty there.
And off to the north and east and south,
With wildering mists between,
They ring us round with wavering hold,
With fold on fold of rose and gold,
Violet, azure, and green.
CITY’S BEAUTY.
FAIR, oh, fair are the hills uncrowned,
Only wreathed and garlanded
With the soft clouds overhead,
With the waving streams of rain;
Fair in golden sunlight drowned,
Bathed and buried in the bright
Warm luxuriance of light,
Fair the hills without a stain.
Fairer far the hills should stand
Crowned with a city’s halls,
With the glimmer of white walls,
With the climbing grace of towers;
Fair with great fronts tall and grand,
Stately streets that meet the sky,
Lovely roof-lines, low and high,
Fairer for the days and hours.
Woman’s beauty fades and flies,
In the passing of the years,
With the falling of the tears,
With the lines of toil and stress;
City’s beauty never dies,
Never while her people know
How to love and honor so
Her immortal loveliness.
TWO SKIES.
FROM ENGLAND.
THEY have a sky in Albion,
At least they tell me so;
But she will wear a veil so thick,
And she does have the sulks so quick,
And weeps so long and slow,
That one can hardly know.
Yes, there’s a sky in Albion.
She’s shown herself of late.
And where it was not white or gray,
It was quite bluish — in a way;
But near and full of weight,
Like an overhanging plate!
Our sky in California!
Such light the angels knew,
When the strong, tender smile of God
Kindled the spaces where they trod,
And made all life come true!
Deep, soundless, burning blue!
WINDS AND LEAVES.
FROM ENGLAND.
WET winds that flap the sodden leaves!
Wet leaves that drop and fall!
Unhappy, leafless trees the wind bereaves!
Poor trees and small!
All of a color, solemn in your green;
All of a color, sombre in your brown;
All of a color, dripping gray between
When leaves are down!
O for the bronze-green eucalyptus spires
Far-flashing up against the endless blue!
Shifting and glancing in the steady fires
Of sun and moonlight too.
Dark orange groves! Pomegranate hedges bright,
And varnished fringes of the pepper trees!
And O that wind of sunshine! Wind of light!
Wind of Pacific seas!
ON THE PAWTUXET.
BROAD and blue is the river, all bright in the sun;
The little waves sparkle, the little waves run;
The birds carol high, and the winds whisper low;
The boats beckon temptingly, row upon row
Her hand is in mine as I help her step in.
Please Heaven, this day I shall lose or shall win —
Broad and blue is the river.
Cool and gray is the river, the sun sinks apace,
And the rose-colored twilight glows soft in her face.
In the midst of the rose-color Venus doth shine,
And the blossoming wild grapes are sweeter than wine;
Tall trees rise above us, four bridges are past,
And my stroke’s running slow as the current runs fast —
Cool and gray is the river.
Smooth and black is the river, no sound as we float
Save the soft-lapping water in under the boat.
The white mists are rising, the moon’s rising too,
And Venus, triumphant, rides high in the blue.
I hold the shawl round her, her hand is in mine,
And we drift under grape-blossoms sweeter than wine —
Smooth and black is the river.
A MOONRISE.
THE heavy mountains, lying huge and dim,
With uncouth outline breaking heaven’s brim;
And while I watched and waited, o’er them soon,
Cloudy, enormous, spectral, rose the moon.
THEIR GRASS!
PROTEST FROM CALIFORNIA.
THEY say we have no grass!
To hear them talk
You’d think that grass could walk
And was their bosom friend, no day to pass
Between them and their grass.
“No grass!” they say who live
Where hot bricks give
The hot stones all their heat and back again,
A baking hell for men.
“O, but,” they haste to say, “we have our parks,
Where fat policemen check the children’s larks;
If
And sign to sign repeats as in a glass,
‘Keep off the grass!’
We have our cities’ parks and grass, you
Well — so have we!
But ‘t is the country that they sing of most.
“Alas, They sing, “for our wide acres of soft grass! —
To please us living and to hide us dead—”
You’d think Walt Whitman’s first was all they read!
You’d think they all went out upon the quiet
Nebuchadnezzar to outdo in diet!
You’d think they found no other green thing fair,
Even its seed an honor in their hair!
You’d think they had this bliss the whole year round,
Evergreen grass! — and we, ploughed ground!
But come now, how does earth’s pet plumage grow
Under your snow?
Is your beloved grass as softly nice
When packed in ice?
For six long months you live beneath a blight,
No grass in sight.
You bear up bravely. And not only that,
But leave your grass and travel; and thereat
We marvel deeply, with slow western mind,
Wondering within us what these people find
Among our common oranges and palms
To tear them from the well-remembered charms
Of their dear vegetable. But still they come,
Frost-bitten invalids! to our bright home,
And chide our grasslessness! Until we say,
“But if you hate it so, why come? Why stay?
Just go away!
Go to — your grass!”
THE PROPHETS.
TIME was we stoned the Prophets. Age on age,
When men were strong to save, the world hath slain them.
People are wiser now; they waste no rage —
The Prophets entertain them!
SIMILAR CASES.
THERE was once a little animal,
No bigger than a
fox,
And on five toes he scampered
Over Tertiary rocks.
They called him Eohippus,
And they called him very small,
And they thought him of no value —
When they thought of him at all;
For the lumpish old Dinoceras
And Coryphodon so slow
Were the heavy aristocracy
In days of long ago.
Said the little Eohippus,
“I am going to be a horse!
And on my middle finger-nails
To run my earthly course!
I’m going to have a flowing tail!
I’m going to have a mane!
I’m going to stand fourteen hands high
On the psychozoic plain!”
The Coryphodon was horrified,
The Dinoceras was shocked;
And they chased young Eohippus,
But he skipped away and mocked.
Then they laughed enormous laughter,
And they groaned enormous groans,
And they bade young Eohippus
Go view his father’s bones.
Said they, “You always were as small
And mean as now we see,
And that’s conclusive evidence
That you ‘re always going to be.
What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast,
With hoofs to gallop on?
Why! You’d have to change your nature!”
Said the Loxolophodon.
They considered him disposed of,
And retired with gait serene;
That was the way they argued
In “the early Eocene.”
There was once an Anthropoidal Ape,
Far smarter than the rest,
And everything that they could do
He always did the best;
So they naturally disliked him,
And they gave him shoulders cool,
And when they had to mention him
They said he was a fool.
Cried this pretentious Ape one day,
“I’m going to be a Man!
And stand upright, and hunt, and fight,
And conquer all I can!
I’m going to cut down forest trees,
To make my houses higher!
I’m going to kill the Mastodon!
I’m going to make a fire!”
Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes
With laughter wild and gay;
They tried to catch that boastful one,
But he always got away.
So they yelled at him in chorus,
Which he minded not a whit;
And they pelted him with cocoanuts,
Which didn’t seem to hit.
And then they gave him reasons
Which they thought of much avail,
To prove how his preposterous
Attempt was sure to fail.
Said the sages, “In the first place,
The thing cannot be done!
And, second, if it could be,
It would not be any fun!
And, third, and most conclusive,
And admitting no reply,
You would have to change your nature!
We should like to see you try!”
They chuckled then triumphantly,
These lean and hairy shapes,
For these things passed as arguments
With the Anthropoidal Apes.
There was once a Neolithic Man,
An enterprising wight,
Who made his chopping implements
Unusually bright.
Unusually clever he,
Unusually brave,
And he drew delightful Mammoths
On the borders of his cave.
To his Neolithic neighbors,
Who were startled and surprised,
Said he, “My friends, in course of time,
We shall be civilized!
We are going to live in cities!
We are going to fight in wars!
We are going to eat three times a day
Without the natural cause!
We are going to turn life upside down
About a thing called gold!
We are going to want the earth, and take
As much as we can hold!
We are going to wear great piles of stuff
Outside our proper skins!
We are going to have Diseases!
And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!”
Then they all rose up in fury
Against their boastful friend,
For prehistoric patience
Cometh quickly to an end.
Said one, “This is chimerical!
Utopian t Absurd!”
Said another, “What a stupid life!
Too dull, upon my word!”
Cried all, “Before such things can come,
You idiotic child,
You must alter Human Nature!”
And they all sat back and smiled.
Thought they, “An answer to that last
It will be hard to find!”
It was a clinching argument
To the Neolithic Mind!
A CONSERVATIVE.
THE garden beds I wandered by
One bright and cheerful mom,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly
A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, “What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store—”
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.
Cried he, “My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur — a joy to view —
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!”
At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
“You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!”
“I do not want to fly,” said he,
“I only want to squirm!”
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm;
“I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!”
O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this,
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.
AN OBSTACLE.
I WAS climbing up a mountain-path
With many things to do,
Important business of my own,
And other people’s too,
When I ran against a Prejudice
That quite cut off the view..
My work was such as could not wait,
My path quite clearly showed,
My strength and time were limited,
I carried quite a load;
And there that hulking Prejudice
Sat all across the road.
So I spoke to him politely,
For he was huge and high,
And begged that he would move a bit
And let me travel by.
He smiled, but as for moving! —
He didn’t even try.
And then I reasoned quietly
With that colossal mule:
My time was short — no other path —
The mountai
n winds were cool.
I argued like a Solomon;
He Sat there like a fool.
Then I flew into a passion,
I danced and howled and swore.
I pelted and belabored him
Till I was stiff and sore;
He got as mad as I did —
But he sat there as before.
And then I begged him on my knees;
I might be kneeling still
If so I hoped to move that mass
Of obdurate ill-will —
As well invite the monument
To vacate Bunker Hill!
So I sat before him helpless,
In an ecstasy of woe —
The mountain mists were rising fast,
The sun was sinking slow —
When a sudden inspiration came,
As sudden winds do blow.
I took my hat, I took my stick,
My load I settled fair,
I approached that awful incubus
With an absent-minded air —
And I walked directly through him,
As if he wasn’t there!
THE FOX WHO HAD LOST HIS TAIL.
THE fox who had lost his tail found out
That now he could faster go;
He had less to cover when hid for prey,
He had less to carry on hunting day,
He had less to guard when he stood at bay;
He was really better so!
Now he was a fine altruistical fox
With the good of his race at heart,
So he ran to his people with tailless speed,
To tell of the change they all must need,
And recommend as a righteous deed
That they and their tails should part!
Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail;
For they all replied, “We perceive your case;
You do not speak for the good of the race,
But only to cover your own disgrace,
Because you have lost your tail!”
Then another fox, of a liberal mind,
With a tail of splendid size,
Became convinced that the tailless state
Was better for all of them, soon or late.
Said he, “I will let my own tail wait,
And so I can open their eyes.”
Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail,
For they all made answer, “My plausible friend,
You talk wisely and well, but you talk to no end.
We know you ‘re dishonest and only pretend,
For you have not lost your tail!”
THE SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY.
IN Norway fiords, in summer-time,