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110 Or else a pictured ceiling overhead, Good painting thrown away. For me, I’ve done What women may, (we’re somewhat limited, We modest women) but I’ve done my best. —How men are perjured when they swear our eyes Have meaning in them! they’re just blue or brown,— They just can drop their lids a little. In fact, Mine did more, for I read half Fourier through, Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis Blanc With various other of his socialists; And if I had been a fathom less in love, Had cured myself with gaping. As it was, I quoted from them prettily enough, Perhaps, to make them sound half rational To a saner man than he, whene’er we talked, (For which I dodged occasion)—learnt by heart His speeches in the Commons and elsewhere Upon the social question; heaped reports Of wicked women and penitentiaries, On all my tables, with a place for Sue; And gave my name to swell subscription-lists Toward keeping up the sun at nights in heaven, And other possible ends. All things I did, Except the impossible. . such as wearing gowns Provided by the Ten Hours’ movement! there, I stopped—we must stop somewhere. He, meanwhile, Unmoved as the Indian tortoise ’neath the world Let all that noise go on upon his back; He would not disconcert or throw me out; ’Twas well to see a woman of my class