<h2><SPAN name="page33"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>BLIND</h2>
<p class="poetry">Whatever a man may think or feel<br/>
He can tell to the world and it hears aright;<br/>
But it bids the woman conceal, conceal,<br/>
And woe to the thoughts that at last ignite.<br/>
She may serve up gossip or dwell on fashion,<br/>
Or play the critic with speech unkind,<br/>
But alas for the woman who speaks with passion!<br/>
For the world is blind—for the world is
blind.</p>
<p class="poetry">It is woman who sits with her starved
desire,<br/>
And drinks to sorrow in cups of tears;<br/>
She reads by the light of her soul on fire<br/>
The secrets of love through lonely years:<br/>
But out of all she has felt or heard<br/>
Or read by the glow of her soul’s white
flame,<br/>
If she dare but utter aloud one word—<br/>
How the world cries shame!—how the world cries
shame!</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page34"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
34</span>It cannot distinguish between the glow<br/>
Of a gleaming star, in the sky of gold,<br/>
Or a spent cigar in the dust below—<br/>
’Twixt unclad Eve or a wanton bold;<br/>
And ever if woman speaks what she feels<br/>
(And feels consistent with God’s great
plan)<br/>
It has cast her under its juggernaut wheels,<br/>
Since the world began—since the world
began.</p>
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