Vain is the hope to weave for thee a rhyme,

Or sweet or sad, or subtle or sublime,

Which wins thy gracious favor for all time.

 Oh, cruel time! my lady will not hear, Though in her ear love sings a song sublime, And my sad rhyme ends, like my love, in fear. 

Though in her ear love sings a song sublime,

 

  Bright like the comforting blaze on the hearth, Sweet like the blooms on the young apple tree, Fragrant with promise of fruit yet to be Are the home-keeping maidens of earth.  

Sweet like the blooms on the young apple tree,

Fragrant with promise of fruit yet to be

  Better and greater than talent is worth, And where is the glory of brush or of pen Like the glory of mothers and molders of men— The home-keeping women of earth?  

And where is the glory of brush or of pen

Like the glory of mothers and molders of men—

  Crowned since the great solar system had birth, They reign unsurpassed in their beautiful sphere. They are queens who can look in God's face without fear— The home-keeping women of earth.  

They reign unsurpassed in their beautiful sphere.

They are queens who can look in God's face without fear—

 

 X. 

 A man whose mere name was submerged in the sea Of letters which followed it, B. A., M. D., And Minerva knows what else, held forth at Bellevue On what he believed some discovery new In medical Science (though, mayhap, a truth That was old in Confucius' earliest youth), And a bevy of bright women students sat near, Absorbing his wisdom with eye and with ear. 

 Close by, lay the corpse of a man, half in view. Dear shades of our dead and gone grandmamas! you Whose modesty hung out red flags on each cheek, Danger signals—if some luckless boor 

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