erishing for bread?
Born in fear, not love, and daily dying,
Cursed of God, they think, but cursed of _you_ instead?

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?
Hear the oft-repeated burden of their prayer--
Hear them asking for one boon above all others--
_Not_ for vengeance on the wrongs they have to bear;
But imploring, as their Lord did, "God forgive them,
For they know not what they do;
Strike the sin, but spare the sinners--save them"--
Meaning, oh ye men and brothers, _you_!

For your heels have ground the women's faces;
You have coined their blood and tears for gold;
Have betrayed their kisses and embraces--
Returned their love with curses twentyfold;
Made the wife's crown one of thorns and not of honor,
Made her motherhood a pain and dread;
Heaped life's toil unrecompensed upon her;
Laid her sons upon her bosom, dead!

Do you hear the women praying, oh my brothers?
Have you not one word to say?
Will a _just_ God be as gentle as these mothers,
If you dare to say them nay?
Oh, ye men, God waits for _you_ to answer
The prayers that to him rise,
He waits to know if _you_ are just ere _He_ is--
There your deliverance lies!

Rise and assert the manhood of this nation,
Its courage, honor, might--
Wipe off the dust of our humiliation--
Dare nobly to do right!
Shall women plead from out the dust forever?
Will you not work, men, if you cannot pray?
Hold up the suppliant hands with your endeavor,
And seize the world's salvation while you may.

Yes, from the eastern to the western ocean,
The sound of prayer is heard;
And in our hearts great billows of emotion
At every breath are stirred.
From mountain tops of prayer down to sin's valley
The voice of women sounds the cry, "Come up!"
O, men and brothers, heed that cry, and rally--
Help us to dash to earth the deadly cup!

"OUR LIFE IS TWOFOLD."

Sweet, kiss my eyelids close, and let me lie,
On this old-fashioned sofa, in the dim
And purple twilight, shut out from the sky,
Which is too garish for my softer whim.
And while I, looking inward on my thought,
Tell thee what phantoms thicken in its air.
Twine thou thy gentle fingers, slumber-fraught,
With the loose shreds of my disheveled hair:
I shall see in