The Forum Of Woman

Woman, never judge man by his individual actions;
But upon man as a whole, pass thy decisive decree.

by Friedrich Schiller.

Female Judgement

Man frames his judgment on reason; but woman on love founds her verdict;
If her judgment loves not, woman already has judged.

by Friedrich Schiller.

Give Me Women, Wine, And Snuff

GIVE me women, wine, and snuff
Untill I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection:
For, bless my beard, they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

by John Keats.

Time on her face has writ
A hundred years,
And all the page of it
Blurred with his tears;

Yet in his holiest crypt
Treasuring the scroll,
Keeps the sweet manuscript
Fair as her soul.

by Thomas MacDonagh.

The Virtue Of Woman

Man of virtue has need; -into life with boldness he plunges,
Entering with fortune more sure into the hazardous strife;
But to woman one virtue suffices; it is ever shining
Lovingly forth to the heart; so let it shine to the eye!

by Friedrich Schiller.

The Leaves Like Women Interchange


The Leaves like Women interchange
Exclusive Confidence—
Somewhat of nods and somewhat
Portentous inference.

The Parties in both cases
Enjoining secrecy—
Inviolable compact
To notoriety.

by Emily Dickinson.

Her nature is the sea's, that smiles to-night
A radiant maiden in the moon's soft light;
The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails,
Forgetful of the fury of her gales;
To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean roars,
And o'er his hapless wreck the flood she pours!

by Eugene Field.

Alas! we women are the fools of you:
You mould us and you mar us — we are yours,
And ever have been since the birth of love,
Flowers cherished for a while, soon to be cast
As weeds away; and yet as weeds in the mire
Our fading hues breathe to the last of you.

by Robert Crawford.

He That Tastes Woman

Man may escape from rope and gun;
Nay, some have out-liv'd the doctor's pill;
Who takes a woman must be undone,
That basilisk is sure to kill.
The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets,
So he that tastes woman, woman, woman,
He that tastes woman, ruin meets.

by John Gay.

As a white candle
In a holy place,
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.

As the spent radience
Of the winter sun,
So is a woman
With her travail done.

Her brood gone from her,
And her thoughts as still
As the waters
Under a ruined mill.

by Joseph Campbell.

When Lovely Woman Stoops To Folly

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.

by Oliver Goldsmith.

The Dear Old Woman In The Lane

The dear old woman in the lane
Is sick and sore with pains and aches,
We'll go to her this afternoon,
And take her tea and eggs and cakes.
We'll stop to make the kettle boil,
And brew some tea, and set the tray,
And poach an egg, and toast a cake,
And wheel her chair round, if we may.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Book Of Contemplation - For Woman

FOR woman due allowance make!

Form'd of a crooked rib was she,--

By Heaven she could not straightened be.
Attempt to bend her, and she'll break;
If left alone, more crooked grows madam;
What well could be worse, my good friend, Adam?--
For woman due allowance make;
'Twere grievous, if thy rib should break!

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

It is not that I love you — nay! and yet
Had I a lover, he would have your eyes,
Your lips, and be in all like you. Sir, see
This is a rose the winds have harried. Oh!
Here is a violet marred, a lily there.
Poor girls, their love or lover was too cruel;
And we are like them — we you men call flowers;
We, too, like these, are hurt with love, and lie
On the sweet earth so forsaken.

by Robert Crawford.

To A Woman Passer-By

I have once seen passing-by

A face rich with pain,

That seemed akin to me deeply and clandestinely,

So god-sent -

And passed and disappeared.

I have once seen passing-by

A face rich with pain,

That impressed me,

As if I had recognized one,

Who dreaming I once called beloved

In an existence that long ago disappeared.

by Georg Trakl.

In a little Hungarian cafe
Men and women are drinking
Yellow wine in tall goblets.

Through the milky haze of the smoke,
The fiddler, under-sized, blond,
Leans to his violin
As to the breast of a woman.
Red hair kindles to fire
On the black of his coat-sleeve,
Where his white thin hand
Trembles and dives,
Like a sliver of moonlight,
When wind has broken the water.

by Lola Ridge.

The Women Who Ministered Unto Him

Enough he labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
But powers that wear and waste and tire,
Need help to toil again.

They give him freely all they can,
They give him clothes and food;
In this rejoicing, that the man
Is not ashamed they should.

High love takes form in lowly thing;
He knows the offering such;
To them 'tis little that they bring,
To him 'tis very much.

by George MacDonald.

' I heard Bill say to-day, Mary,
That you are a charming fairy,
And that to town he'd give you drive;
But, just as sure as you're alive
He does intend to have the bliss
Of stealing from your lips a kiss.'
'I'll let him drive me, now, Jane,
His efforts they will all be vain ;
I hate him, and I him defy'-
And anger flashed from her eye.
'The monster's wiles I will defeat,
Peck of strong onions I will eat.

by James McIntyre.

Pity all faithless women who have loved. None knows
How much it hurts a woman to do wrong to love.
The mother who has felt the child within her move,
Shall she forget her child, and those ecstatic throes?

Then pity faithless women who have loved. These have
Murdered within them something born out of their pain.
These mothers of the child whom they have loved and slain
May not so much as lay the child within a grave.

by Arthur Symons.

Jones is a man exceeding meek
And henpecked, so his neighbours say,
Who, one glad evening every week,
Sought sanctuary in his queer way.

At his suburban picture show
He'd sit and gloat, in mood serene,
Quite recompensed for all his woe
To see dumb women on the screen.

But now the picture house he shuns;
His week becomes one weary drag;
For, 'mid the crash of 'he-men's' guns,
Even the female shadows nag!

by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis.

To Women As Far As I'M Concerned

The feelings I don't have I don't have.
The feeling I don't have, I won't say I have.
The feelings you say you have, you don't have.
The feelings you would like us both to have, we neither of us have.
The feelings people ought to have, they never have.
If people say they've got feelings, you may be pretty sure they haven't got them.
So if you want either of us to feel anything at all
You'd better abandon all ideas of feelings altogether.

by David Herbert Lawrence.

Not faultless, for she was not fashioned so,
A mingling of the bitter and the sweet;
Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low
Of hope and trust and happiness complete,
Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire,
Or make themselves but wells of tenderness
Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire-
Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress.
Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth,
And only heaven fully knows her worth.

by Jean Blewett.

O, In A World Of Men And Women

0, in a world of men and women,
Where all things seemed so strange to me,
And speech the common world called human
For me was a vain mimicry,

I thought-O, am I one in sorrow ?
Or is the world more quick to hide
Their pain with raiment that they borrow
From pleasure in the house of pride ?

O joy of mine, 0 longed-for stranger,
How I would greet you if you came:
In the world's joys I've been a ranger,
In my world sorrow is their name.

by Isaac Rosenberg.

O You Among Women

When pails empty the last brightness
Of the well, at twilight-time,
and you are there among women -
O mouth of silence,
Will you come with me, when I sign,
to the far green wood, that fences
A lake inlaid with light?

To be there, O, lost in each other,
While day melts in airy water,
And the drake-headed pike - a shade
In the Waves' pale stir!
For love is there, under the breath,
As a coy star is there in the quiet
Of the wood's blue eye.

by Frederick Robert Higgins.

An mein Weib (on my woman)

As kids we trudged, cheeky and bold,
Barefoot through all the puddles free
And let the filth of a cold
Day splash up to our knees

Like once we tramped through meadows and woods
So now it's life we step through;
All a sick culture's mud
Sticks to our legs like glue.

Oh, let's not get the shivers about what's there!
We're not afraid of the adders that swarm,
As long as our heads are held high in the air
And your hair flutters in the storm!

by Benjamin Franklin Wedekind.

The Gardener Lix: O Woman

O woman, you are not merely the
handiwork of God, but also of men;
these are ever endowing you with
beauty from their hearts.
Poets are weaving for you a web
with threads of golden imagery;
painters are giving your form ever
new immortality.
The sea gives its pearls, the mines
their gold, the summer gardens their
flowers to deck you, to cover you, to
make you more precious.
The desire of men's hearts has shed
its glory over your youth.
You are one half woman and one
half dream.

by Rabindranath Tagore.

The Power Of Woman

Mighty art thou, because of the peaceful charms of thy presence;
That which the silent does not, never the boastful can do.
Vigor in man I expect, the law in its honors maintaining,
But, through the graces alone, woman e'er rules or should rule.
Many, indeed, have ruled through the might of the spirit and action,
But then thou noblest of crowns, they were deficient in thee.
No real queen exists but the womanly beauty of woman;
Where it appears, it must rule; ruling because it appears!

by Friedrich Schiller.

My Paris is a land where twilight days
Merge into violent nights of black and gold;
Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold:
Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways!

Eyelids of women, little curls of hair,
A little nose curved softly, like a shell,
A red mouth like a wound, a mocking veil:
Phantoms, before the dawn, how phantom-fair!

And every woman with beseeching eyes,
Or with enticing eyes, or amorous,
Offers herself, a rose, and craves of us
A rose's place among our memories.

by Arthur Symons.

I spoke to the pale and heavy-lidded woman, and said:
O pale and heavy-lidded woman, why is your cheek
Pale as the dead, and what are your eyes afraid lest they speak?
And the woman answered me: I am pale as the dead,
For the dead have loved me, and I dream of the dead.

But I see in the eyes of the living, as a living fire,
The thing that my soul in triumph tells me I have forgot;
And therefore mine eyelids are heavy, and I raise them not,
For always I see in the eyes of men the old desire,
And I fear lest they see that I desire their desire.

by Arthur Symons.

Villanelle Of The Poet's Road

Wine and woman and song,
Three things garnish our way:
Yet is day over long.

Lest we do our youth wrong,
Gather them while we may:
Wine and woman and song.

Three things render us strong,
Vine leaves, kisses and bay:
Yet is day over long.

Unto us they belong,
Us the bitter and gay,
Wine and women and song.

We, as we pass along,
Are sad that they will not stay;
Yet is day over long.

Fruits and flowers among,
What is better than they:
Wine and women and song?
Yet is day over long.

by Ernest Christopher Dowson.

To George Sand: A Recognition

TRUE genius, but true woman ! dost deny
The woman's nature with a manly scorn
And break away the gauds and armlets worn
By weaker women in captivity?
Ah, vain denial ! that revolted cry
Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn, _
Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn
Floats back dishevelled strength in agony
Disproving thy man's name: and while before
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,
We see thy woman-heart beat evermore
Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher,
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire !

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Her eyes are the windows of a soul
Where only the white thoughts spring,
And they look, as the eyes of the angels look,
For the good in everything.

Her lips can whisper the tenderest words
That weary and worn can hear,
Can tell of the dawn of a better morn
Till only the cowards fear.

Her hands can lift up the fallen one
From an overthrow complete,
Can take a soul from the mire of sin
And lead it to Christ's dear feet.

And she can walk wherever she will-
She walketh never alone.
The work she does is the Master's work,
And God guards well His own.

by Jean Blewett.

WITH her fair face she made my heaven,
Beneath whose stars and moon and sun
I worshiped, praying, having striven,
For wealth through which she might be won.
And yet she had no soul: A woman
As fair and cruel as a god;
Who played with hearts as nothing human,
And tossed them by and on them trod.
She killed a soul; she did it nightly;
Luring it forth from peace and prayer,
To strangle it, and laughing lightly,
Cast it into the gutter there.
And yet, not for a purer vision
Would I exchange; or Paradise
Possess instead of Hell, my prison,
Where burns the passion of her eyes.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

To A Female Friend

Your lips bewitch with sweet enchantment,
Your gaze reveals a deep abyss;
Your voice contains unearthly music,
A wondrous strain of dreamlike bliss.

Your forehead rises clear, untroubled,
Your hair is but a sable bower;
A wafting breath of scented blossom
Seems to attend your every hour.

The dimple in your cheek’s a treasure,
An endless wisdom without art;
Your disposition the restoring
Fount and spring for every heart.

Your mind’s a universe displaying
The agitated flush of spring -One
that will nevermore release me,
One that I know, whose praise I sing.

by Emil Aarestrup.

The Woman Speaks

Why have you come? to see me in my shame?
A thing to spit on, to despise and scorn?
And then to ask me! You, by whom was torn
And then cast by, like some vile rag, my name!
What shelter could you give me, now, that blame
And loathing would not share? that wolves of vice
Would not besiege with eyes of glaring ice?
Wherein Sin sat not with her face of flame?
'You love me'? God! If yours be love, for lust
Hell must invent another synonym!
If yours be love, then hatred is the way
To Heaven and God! and not with soul but dust
Must burn the faces of the Cherubim,
O lie of lies, if yours be love, I say!

by Madison Julius Cawein.

There Was A Man And A Woman

There was a man and a woman
Who sinned.
Then did the man heap the punishment
All upon the head of her,
And went away gaily.


There was a man and a woman
Who sinned.
And the man stood with her.
As upon her head, so upon his,
Fell blow and blow,
And all people screaming, "Fool!"
He was a brave heart.


He was a brave heart.
Would you speak with him, friend?
Well, he is dead,
And there went your opportunity.
Let it be your grief
That he is dead
And your opportunity gone;
For, in that, you were a coward.

by Stephen Crane.

THE stone that all the sullen centuries,
With sluggish hands and massive fingers rude,
Against the sepulchre of womanhood
Had sternly held, she has thrust back with ease,
And stands, superbly arrogant, the keys
Of knowledge in her hand, won by a mood
Of daring, in her beauty flaunting nude,
Eager to drain life's wine unto the lees.
So she shall tempt and touch and try and taste,
And in the wrestle of the world shall lose
Her dimpled prettiness, her petals bruise;
But moulding ever to a truer type
She shall return to man, no more abased—
His counterpart, a woman, rounded, ripe.

by Arthur Henry Adams.

On The Death Of An Old Woman

Often I listen full of horror at the door

And when I arrive it seems to me that someone fled,

And her eyes see past me

Dreamily, as if they would see me elsewhere.

Thus she sits completely stooped in herself and listens

And seems far-off from the things around her,

However, she trembles when noise rushes at the window,

And then cries still, just like an anxious child.

And caresses her white hair with tired hand

And asks with paled glance: Must I go already?

And has a crazy fever: The little light in the altar

Went out! Where do you go? What has happened?

by Georg Trakl.

On Being Asked To Write In Miss Westwood's Album

My feeble Muse, that fain her best would
Write, at command of Frances Westwood,
But feels her wits not in their best mood,
Fell lately on some idle fancies,
As she's much given to romances,
About this self-same style of Frances;
Which seems to be a name in common
Attributed to man or woman.
She thence contrived this flattering moral,
With which she hopes no soul will quarrel,
That she, whom this twin title decks,
Combines what's good in either sex;
Unites-how very rare the case is!-
Masculine sense to female graces;
And, quitting not her proper rank,
Is both in one-Fanny and frank.

Oct. 12, 1827.

by Charles Lamb.

Who Is That Syama Woman

Who is that Syama woman
standing on Bhava?
All Her modesty gone,
She plays with Him
overturning sexual custom
by being on top.
Choked up,
waves of bliss sweeping over Her,
She hangs Her head and smiles --
Love incarnate!
The Yamuna, the heavenly Ganges, and between them
the honorable Sarasvati --
bathing at their confluence
confers great merit.
Here the new moon devours the blue moon,
like wind extinguishing fire.

Poet Ramprasad says,
Brahman is merely the radiance of Brahmamayi.
Stare at Her
and all your sins and pains
will vanish.

[Translated by Rachel Fell McDermott]

by Ramprasad Sen.