Classic Poem

They sit on their silken cushions and say what a terrible thing
To be the wife of a woodsman, the queen of a jungle king —
To dwell in an humble dwelling, to live on a shanty floor,
With nothing but house and husband, and a red rose by the door.
But I, I am sick of longing, and I, I am dying here
For a strong man's home in a clearing and the love of a pioneer.

They prattle of fads and fashions, of dinners and balls and nights,
These powdered and pretty fungi, these gossiping parasites;
And men who are working wonders and men who are doing deeds
Must dally and dance attendance, and humor their dainty needs.
They talk of their virgin virtues, and sell them for clothes and food —
While some brave heart wants a Woman to battle the solitude.

I'm sick of their silly chatter, the cluck of the idle hen;
Is none of the work for women, and all of the work for men?
They house, and they feed and clothe us, and we who have love to sell
Are ready to be their women if only they pay us well.
But not for the highest bidder God ever has made the bride:
He made us a helpmeet to him, to walk by the worker's side.

I long for the tangled forest. I long for the land that's new!
For there is the work for women, for women and men to do;
For there are the woods to people, and there is the trail to make,
For the sake of the God who made us, for the sake of a good man's sake;
For that is the work for doing, and that is the woman of worth —
And I'd follow my man, if he asked me, to the uttermost ends of the earth!