Ah, learn whate'er you will, yet spare our hearts A home-grown, feminine Baboo of Arts. Believe it, envious maids, the men you spurn Think little of the honours that they earn. Too well they're taught in common sense's rules To dwell upon their triumphs in the Schools, And chiefly prize the Baccalaureate fur Because, in love's young days, it pleases Her. But you, in purpose tyrannously strong, Get, in each effort, your perspective wrong. Learn all you wish to learn, exult in learning, For Hymen's torch keep midnight oil a-burning, Bulge your fair foreheads with those threatening bumps, Ungraceful as an intellectual mumps, Be blatant, rude, self-conscious as you can, Be all you feign--and imitate--in Man, Spurn all the fine traditions of the past, Be New or nothing--what's the gain at last? You know as much, with hard-eyed, harsh-voiced joy, As the shock-headed, shambling fifth-form boy; Adding, what his sound mind would never please, An Asiatic hunger for degrees. True learning's that alone whereon are based Clear insight, reason, sympathy, and taste. Not relic-worshipping of bones long dry, Not giving puppet-life to x and y, And walking haughtily a fair world through Because some girls can't do the sums you do. Still less, the little, little world of cliques, Where Mutual Admiration dons the breeks, And then proceeds kind tolerant man to flout-- A petulant, unresented Barring-out. Meanwhile our faith looks on, devoid of fear, Facing the hatchet of the Pioneer. Still will the storm, in Nature's potent plan, Be temper'd to the shorn, or bearded, man. Your sex will still be perfect in its place, With voice of melody and soul of grace. Pose, lecture, worry, copy as you will, Man will be man, and woman woman still! [Sidenote: _The Real New Woman_]