This poem is for my wife.
I have made it plainly and honestly:
The mark is on
Like the burl on the knife.
I have not made it for praise.
She has no more need for
Than summer
Or the bright days.
In all that becomes a
Her words and her ways are beautiful:
Love's lovely duty,the well-swept room.
Wherever she is there is
And time and a sweet air:
Peace is there,
Work done.
There are always curtains and
And candles and baked
And a cloth
And a clean house.
Her voice when she sings is a
At dawn by a freshening
Where the wave leaps in the
And rejoices.
Wherever she is it is now.
It is here where the apples are:
Here in the stars,
In the quick hour.
The greatest and richest good,
My own life to live in,
This she has given me —If giver could.
