The Cry Of The Women

    A new year dawning on a warring world!
        And many fight, and many pray for peace;
        But yet the roar of battle will not cease,
    Still man against his brother man is hurled.

    So we who wait - we women in our woe,
        Who wait and work - who wait, and work, and weep -
        For us there is no rest, for us no sleep,
    As our sad thoughts are wandering grim and slow,

    Across those dreary fields where far away
        Our hero myriads bleed and burn and die,
        We lift our hearts toward the pitying sky -
    Dawns there no hope upon this New Year's day?

    1915

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

Life And Death

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

A Palinode. I-16 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To John Townsend Trowbridge

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

Religion. I-34 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

An Appeal To My Countrywomen.

You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian
    Who weeps in her desolate home.
You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia
    From kindred and friends doomed to roam.

You can pity the men who have woven
    From passion and appetite chains
To coil with a terrible tension
    Around their heartstrings and brains.

You can sorrow o'er little children
    Disinherited from their birth,
The wee waifs and toddlers neglected,
    Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.

For beasts you have gentle compassion;
    Your mercy and pity they share.
For the wretched, outcast and fallen
    You have tenderness, love and care.


But hark! from our Southland are floating
    Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain,
And women heart-stricken are weeping

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

The Edict Of The Sex

Two thousand years had passed since Christ was born,
When suddenly there rose a mighty host
Of women, sweeping to a central goal
As many rivers sweep on to the sea.
They came from mountains, valleys, and from coasts,
And from all lands, all nations, and all ranks,
Speaking all languages, but thinking one.
And that one language - Peace.

    'Listen,' they said,
And straightway was there silence on the earth,
For men were dumb with wonder and surprise.
'Listen, O mighty masters of the world,
And hear the edict of all womankind:
Since Christ His new commandment gave to men,
LOVE ONE ANOTHER, full two thousand years
Have passed away, yet earth is red with blood.
The strong male rulers of the world proclaim
Their weakness, when we ask that war shall ceas...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

New Year's Night, 1916

The Earth moans in her sleep
Like an old mother
Whose sons have gone to the war,
Who weeps silently in her heart
Till dreams comfort her.

The Earth tosses
As if she would shake off humanity,
A burden too heavy to be borne,
And free of the pest of intolerable men,
Spin with woods and waters
Joyously in the clear heavens
In the beautiful cool rains,
Bearing gladly the dumb animals,
And sleep when the time comes
Glistening in the remains of sunlight
With marmoreal innocency.

Be comforted, old mother,
Whose sons have gone to the war;
And be assured, O Earth,
Of your burden of passionate men,
For without them who would dream the dreams
That encompass you with glory,
Who would gather your youth
And store it in the jar o...

Duncan Campbell Scott

Battle Hymn Of The Women

They are waking, they are waking,
    In the east, and in the west;
They are throwing wide their windows to the sun;
And they see the dawn is breaking,
    And they quiver with unrest,
For they know their work is waiting to be done.

They are waking in the city,
    They are waking on the farm;
They are waking in the boudoir, and the mill;
And their hearts are full of pity
    As they sound the loud alarm,
For the sleepers, who in darkness, slumber, still.

In the guarded harem prison,
    Where they smother under veils,
And all echoes of the world are walled away;
Though the sun has not yet risen,
    Yet the ancient darkness pales,
And the sleepers, in their slumber, dream of day.

And their dream shall grow in splendour
    Til...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Then And Now

A little time agone, a few brief years,
And there was peace within our beauteous borders;
Peace, and a prosperous people, and no fears
Of war and its disorders.
Pleasure was ruling goddess of our land; with her attendant Mirth
She led a jubilant, joy-seeking band about the riant earth.

Do you recall those laughing days, my Brothers,
And those long nights that trespassed on the dawn?
Those throngs of idle dancing maids and mothers
Who lilted on and on -
Card mad, wine flushed, bejewelled and half stripped,
Yet women whose sweet mouth had never sipped
From sin's black chalice - women good at heart
Who, in the winding maze of pleasure's mart,
Had lost the sun-kissed way to wholesome pleasures of an earlier day.

Oh!    You remember them!    You filled their...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Lament Of Mary Queen Of Scots

Smile of the Moon! for I so name
That silent greeting from above;
A gentle flash of light that came
From her whom drooping captives love;
Or art thou of still higher birth?
Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,
My torpor to reprove!

Bright boon of pitying Heaven! alas,
I may not trust thy placid cheer!
Pondering that Time tonight will pass
The threshold of another year;
For years to me are sad and dull;
My very moments are too full
Of hopelessness and fear.

And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,
That struck perchance the farthest cone
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem
To visit me, and me alone;
Me, unapproached by any friend,
Save those who to my sorrow lend
Tears due unto their own.

To night the church-tower bells ...

William Wordsworth