You, too, with your science, your titles, your books, and your long explanations That tell me how I am come up out of the dust of the cycles, Out of the sands of the sea, out of the unknown primeval forests,-- Out of the growth of the world have become the bud and the promise,-- Out of the race of the beasts have arisen, proud and triumphant,-- You, if you knew how your words rumble round in the wheels of labor! If you knew how my hammering heart beats, "Liar, liar, you lie! Out of all buds of the earth we are most blasted and blighted! What beast of all the beasts is not prouder and freer than we?" You, too, who sing in high words of the glory of Man universal, The beauty of sacrifice, debt of the future, the present immortal, The glory of use, absorption by Death of the being in Being, You, if you knew what jargon it makes, down here, would be quiet. Oh, is there no one to find or to speak a meaning to _me_, To me as I am,--the hard, the ignorant, withered-souled worker? To me upon whom God and Science alike have stamped "failure," To me who know nothing but labor, nothing but sweat, dirt, and sorrow, To me whom you scorn and despise, you up there who sing while I moan? To me as I am,--for me as I am--not dying but living; _Not_ my future, my present! my body, my needs, my desires! Is there no one, In the midst of this rushing of phantoms--of Gods, of Science, of Logic, Of Philosophy, Morals, Religion, Economy,--all this that helps not, All these ghosts at whose altars you worship, these ponderous, marrowless Fictions, Is there no one who thinks, is there nothing to help this dull moaning me? =Philadelphia,= April, 1893. MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT