I project them, an arm or a wing;
I can change as I will,
But you have to keep still —
Just a part of the mass where you cling!
You never can be but one thing!”
Said the Specialized Cell to the Amoeboid Cell,
“What you say is undoubtedly true,
But I’d rather be part
Of a thing with a heart
Than the whole of a creature like you!
A memberless morsel like you!
“You say you ‘re immortal and separate and free,
Yet you We died by the billion before;
Just a speck in the slime
At the birthday of time,
And you never can be any more!
As you are, you’ve no future in store!
“You say you can be many things in yourself,
Yet you ‘re all just alike to the end!
I am part of a whole —
Of a thing with a soul — .
And the whole is the unit, my friend!
But that you can scarce comprehend!
“You are only yourself, just a series of ones;
You can only say ‘I’ — never ‘we’;
All of us are combined
In a creature with mind,
And we are the creature you see!
And the creature feeds us — which is me t
“And being combined in a body like that
It can wisely provide us with food;
And we vary and change
In a limitless range;
We are specialized now, for our good!
And we each do our work — as we should!
“What protection have you from the chances of Fate?
What provision have you for the morrow?
You get food when it drops,
And you die when it stops!
You can’t give or take, lend or borrow!
You helpless free-agent of sorrow!”
Just then came a frost, and the Amoeboid Cell
Died oat by the billion again;
But the Specialized Cell
In the body felt well
And rejoiced in his place in the brain!
The dead level of life with a brain!
THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.
In northern zones the ranging bear
Protects himself with fat and hair.
Where snow is deep, and ice is stark,
And half the year is cold and dark,
He still survives a clime like that
By growing fur, by growing fat.
These traits, O Bear, which thou transmittest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!
To polar regions, waste and wan,
Comes the encroaching race of man;
A puny, feeble little lubber,
He had no fur, he had no blabber.
‘The scornful bear sat down at ease
To see the stranger starve and freeze;
But, lo! the stranger slew the bear,
And ate his fat, and wore his hair!
These deeds, O Man, which thou committest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!
In modern times the millionaire
Protects himself as did the bear.
Where Poverty and Hunger are,
He counts his bullion by the car.
Where thousands suffer, still he thrives,
And after death his will survives.
The wealth, O Croesus, thou transmittest
Proves the survival of the fittest!
But, lo! some people, odd and funny,
Some men without a cent of money,
The simple common Human Race,
Chose to improve their dwelling-place.
They had no use for millionaires;
They calmly said the world was theirs;
They were so wise, so strong, so many —
The millionaire? There wasn’t any!
These deeds, O Man, which thou committest,
Prove the survival of the fittest!
DIVISION OF PROPERTY.
SOME sailors were starving at sea
On a raft where they happened to be,
When one of the crew
Who was hidden from view
Was found to be feasting most free.
Then they cursed him in language profane,
Because there on the pitiless main
While the others did starve,
He could ladle and carve,
Eating food which they could not obtain.
“But,” said he, “‘t is my own little store!
To feed all of you would take more!
If I shared, ‘t would be found
That it would not go round;
And you all would starve on as before!
“It would only prolong your distress
To distribute this one little mess!
The supply is so small
I had best eat it all,
For me it will comfort and bless!”
This reasoning sounded most fair,
But the men had large appetites there,
And while he explained
They ate all that remained,
Forgetting to leave out his share!
CHRISTIAN VIRTUES.
OH, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!
Nowhere on land or sea
Will be room for charity!
Nowhere, in field or city,
A person to help or pity!
Better for them, no doubt,
Not to need helping out
Of their old miry ditch.
But, alas for us, the rich!
For we shall lose, you see,
Our boasted charity! —
Lose all the pride and joy
Of giving the poor employ,
And money, and food, and love
(And making stock thereof!).
Our Christian virtues are gone,
With nothing to practise on!
It don’t hurt them a bit,
For they can’t practise it;
But it’s our great joy and pride —
What virtue have we beside?
We believe, as sure as we live,
That it is more blessed to give
Than to want, and waste, and grieve,
And occasionally receive!
And here are the people pressing
To rob us of our pet blessing!
No chance to endow or bedizen
A hospital, school, or prison,
And leave our own proud name
To Gratitude and Fame!
No chance to do one good deed,
To give what we do not need,
To leave what we cannot use
To those whom we deign to choose!
When none want broken meat,
How shall our cake be sweet?
When none want flannels and coals,
How shall we save our souls?
Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
The Christian virtues will disappear!
The poor have their virtues rude,
Meekness and gratitude,
Endurance, and respect
For us, the world’s elect;
Economy, self-denial,
Patience in every trial,
Self-sacrifice, self-restraint,
Virtues enough for a saint!
Virtues enough to bear
All this life’s sorrow and care!
Virtues by which to rise
To a front seat in the skies!
How can they turn from this
To common earthly bliss,
Mere clothes, and food, and drink,
And leisure to read and think,
And art, and beauty, and ease,
There is no crown for these!
True, if their gratitude
Were not for fire and food,
They might still learn to bless
The Lord
for their happiness!
And, instead of respect for wealth,
Might learn from beauty, and health,
And freedom in power and pelf,
Each man to respect himself!
And, instead of scraping and saving,
Might learn from using and having
That man’s life should be spent
In a grand development! But this is petty and small;
These are not virtues at all;
They do not look as they should;
They don’t do us any good!
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The Christian virtues will disappear!
WHAT’S THAT?
I MET a little person on my land,
A-fishing in the waters of my stream;
He seemed a man, yet could not understand
Things that to most men very simple seem.
“Get off!” said I; “this land is mine, my friend!
Get out!” said I; “this brook belongs to me!
I own the land, and you must make an end
Of fishing here so free.
“I own this place, the land and water too!
You have no right to be here, that is flat!
Get off it! That is all I ask of you!—”
“Own it?” said he; “what’s that?”
“What’s that?” said I, “why, that is common sense!
I own the water and the fishing right;
I own the land from here to yonder fence;
Get off, my friend, or fight!”
He looked at the clear stream so neatly kept;
He looked at teeming vine and laden tree,
And wealthy fields of grain that stirred and slept;
“I see!” he cried, “I see!
“You mean you cut the wood and plowed the field,
From your hard labor all this beauty grew,
To you is due the richness of the yield;
You have some claim, ‘t is true.”
“Not so,” said I, with manner very cool,
And tossed my purse into the air and caught it;
“Do I look like a laborer, you fool?
It’s mine because I bought it!”
Again he looked as if I talked in Greek,
Again he scratched his head and twirled his hat,
Before he mustered wit enough to speak.
“Bought it?” said he, “what’s that?”
And then he said again, “I see! I see!
You mean that some men toiled with plows and hoes,
And while those worked for you, you toiled with glee
At other work for those.”
“Not so!” said I, getting a little hot,
Thinking the man a fool as well as funny;
“I’m not a working-man, you idiot;
I bought it with my money!”
And still that creature stared and dropped his jaw,
Till I could have destroyed him where he sat.
“Money,” said I, “money, and moneyed law I”
“Money?” said he, “what ‘a that?”
AN ECONOMIST.
THE serene savage sitting in his tree
Saw empires rise and fall,
And moralized on their uncertainty.
(He never rose at all!)
He was full fat from god-sent droves of prey;
He was full calm from satisfied desire;
He was full wise in that he chose to stay
Free from ambition’s fire.
“See,” quoth the savage, “how they toil and strive
To make things better, vain and idle wish!
Here is good store of what keeps man alive,
Of fruit, and flesh, and fish.
“Poor discontented wretches, fed on air,
Seeking to change the normal lot of man,
To lure him from this natural strife and care,
With vague Utopian plan!
“Here’s wealth and joy — why seek for any change?
Why labor for a more elaborate life?
As if God could not his own world arrange
Without our fretful strife!
“Those who complain of savagery as low
Are merely proven lazy, and too weak
To live by skilful hunt and deadly blow;
It is their needs that speak.
“Complain of warfare! Cry that peace is sweet!
Complain of hunting! Prate of toil and trade!
It only proves that they cannot compete
In the free life we’ve made.”
Another empire reeled into its grave;
The savage sat serenely as before,
As calm and wise, as cunning and as brave —
Never an atom more.
CHARITY.
CAME two young children to their mother’s shelf
(One was quite little, and the other big),
And each in freedom calmly helped himself.
(One Was a pig.)
The food was free and plenty for them both,
But one was rather dull and very small;
So the big smarter brother, nothing loath,
He took it all.
At which the little fellow raised a yell
Which tired the other’s more aesthetic ears;
He gave him here a crust, and there a shell
To stop his tears.
He gave with pride, in manner calm and bland,
Finding the other’s hunger a delight;
He gave with piety — his full left hand
Hid from his right.
He gave and gave — O blessed Charity!
How sweet and beautiful a thing it is!
How fine to see that big boy giving free
What is not his!
SUFFRAGE SONGS AND VERSES
Suffrage Songs and Verses was first published in 1911 by The Charlton Company of New York. Gilman’s second collection of poems features verses from In This Our World and other compositions previously printed in the Woman’s Journal and the author’s magazine The Forerunner. The collection details Gilman’s passionate support for women’s rights and equality between the sexes. The poet devoted her entire literary and academic life to furthering her political and social aims, which involved her desire for reforms to American society. In a poem such as ‘To The Indifferent Women’ the writer attacks women who content themselves with the domestic sphere ‘Do you believe the sorrow of the world/Does not concern you in your little homes?’ Gilman expresses her views very clearly stating, ‘The one first duty of all human life/Is to promote the progress of the world’.
One interesting verse in the collection is ‘The Socialist and the Suffragist’: presenting a dialogue between a male socialist and a suffragist in which they argue about whose cause should have prevalence in the struggle for change and whether a radical shift in class relations will also alter gender roles. These disputes still occur among the ‘Left’, with some imagining that race, gender and gay rights will resolve themselves after the working class has seized power. In the poem the socialist protests that the suffragist fight should be secondary because ‘You only work for a Special Class/We work for the gain of the General Mass’ while the woman retorts that in order to stage a successful transformation of the political, social, and economic you must first rectify gender inequality ‘While women remain a Subject Class/You never can move the General Mass’. Gilman’s response is simply a call to action ‘Work, each of you, with all your heart—/Just get into the game!’
This was Gilman’s second collection of poems
CONTENTS
SHE WALKETH VEILED AND SLEEPING
COMING
LOCKED INSIDE
NOW
WOMEN OF TO-DAY
BOYS WIFE BE BOYS
FOR FEAR
MOTHER TO CHILD
A QUESTION
THE HOUSEWIFE
WEDDED BLISS
FEMALES
WE AS WOMEN
GIRLS OF TO-DAY
/>
WOMEN TO MEN
REASSURANCE
THE SOCIALIST AND THE
THE MALINGERER
THE ANTI-SUFFRAGISTS
THE “ANTI” AND THE FEY
TO THE INDIFFERENT WOMEN
SONG FOR EQUAL SUFFRAGE
ANOTHER STAR
SHE WHO IS TO COME
Gilman was a great supporter of female suffrage
SHE WALKETH VEILED AND SLEEPING
SHE WALKETH veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power;
She obeyeth but the pleading
Of her heart, and the high leading
Of her soul, unto this hour.
Slow advancing, halting, creeping,
Comes the Woman to the hour! —
She walketh veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power.
COMING
Because the time is ripe, the age is ready,
Because the world her woman’s help demands.
Out of the long subjection and seclusion
Come to our field of warfare and confusion
The mother’s heart and hands.
Long has she stood aside, endured and waited,
While man swung forward, toiling on alone;
Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated,
Now, for the world for which she was created,
Comes woman to her own.
Not for herself! though sweet the air of freedom;
Not for herself, though dear the new-born power;
But for the child, who needs a nobler mother,
For the whole people, needing one another,
Comes woman to her hour.
LOCKED INSIDE
She beats upon her bolted door,
With faint weak hands;
Drearily walks the narrow floor;
Sullenly sits, blank walls before;
Despairing stands.
Life calls her, Duty, Pleasure, Gain —
Her dreams respond;
But the blank daylights wax and wane,
Dull peace, sharp agony, slow pain —
No hope beyond.
Till she comes a thought! She lifts her head,
The world grows wide!
A voice — as if clear words were said —
“Your door, O long imprisoned,
Is locked inside!”
NOW
With God Above — Beneath — Beside —
Without — Within — and Everywhere;
Rising with the resistless tide
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 183
