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Ella Wheeler Wilcox (Элла Уилкокс) The Silent Tragedy The deepest tragedies of life are not Put into books, or acted on the stage. Nay, they are lived in silence, by tense hearts In homes, among dull unperceiving kin, And thoughtless friends, who make a whip of words Wherewith to lash these hearts, and call it wit. There is a tragedy lived everywhere In Christian lands, by an increasing horde Of women martyrs to our social laws. Women whose hearts cry out for motherhood; Women whose bosoms ache for little heads; Women God meant for mothers, but whose lives Have been restrained, restricted, and denied Their natural channels, till at last they stand Unmated and alone, by that sad sea Whose slow receding tide returns no more. Men meet great sorrows; but no man can grasp The depth, and height, of such a grief as this. The call of Fatherhood is from man's brain. Man cannot know the answer to that call Save as a woman tells him. But to her The call of Motherhood is from the soul, The brain, the body. She is like a plant Which buds and blossoms only to bear fruit. Man is the pollen, carried by the wind Of accident, or impulse, or desire; And then his rôle of fatherhood is played. Her threefold knowledge of maternity, Through three times three great months, is hers alone. Man as an egotist is wounded when He is not father. Woman when denied The all-embracing rôle of motherhood Rebels with her whole being. Oftentimes Rebellion finds its only utterance In shattered nerves, and lack of self-control; Which gives the merry world its chance to cry 'Old maids are queer.' In far off Eastern lands They think of God as Mother to the race; Father and Mother of the Universe. And mayhap this is why they make their girls Wives prematurely, mothers over young, Hoping to please their Mother God this way. Since everywhere in Nature sex is shown For procreative uses, they contend Sterility is sinful. (Save when one Chooses a life of Saintship here on earth, And so conserves all forces to that end.) Here in the West, our God is Masculine; And while we say He bade a Virgin bring His Son to birth, we think of Him as One Placing false values on forced continence-- Preparing heavens for those who live that life-- And hells for those who stray by thought or act From the unnatural path our laws have made. Mother of Christ, thou being woman, thou Knowing all depths within the woman heart, All joy, all pain, oh send the world more light. Enlarge our sympathies; and let our minds Turn from achievements of material things To contemplation of Eternal truths. Space throbs with egos, waiting for rebirth; And mother-hearted women fill the earth. Mother of Christ, show us the way to thin The ranks of childless women, without sin. Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1247 |
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