Degraded, helpless thing!Will make her little children work
And live on what they bring!
No fledgling feeds the father-bird!
No chicken feeds the hen!
No kitten mouses for the cat—
This glory is for men.
We are the Wisest, Strongest Race—
Loud my our praise be sung!—
The only animal alive
That lives upon its young!
We make the poverty that takes
The lives of babies so.
We can awake! rebuild! remake!—
And let our children grow!
His Crutches
Why should the Stronger Sex require,
To hold him to his tasks,
Two medicines of varied fire?
The Weaker Vessel asks.
Hobbling between the rosy cup
And dry narcotic brown,—
One daily drug to stir him up
And one to soothe him down.
Get Your Work Done
Get your work DONE, to remember,—
Nothing can take it away,
Then shall the sun of December
Shine brighter than goldenest May.
What is the Spring-time of flowers for?
Why does the sunshine come down?
What are the harvest-day hours for
But fruit? In the fruit is the crown.
Why should we grieve over losses?
Why should we fret over sin?
Death is the smallest of crosses
To the worker whose harvest is in.
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