Poem in Prose

This poem is for my wife.

I have made it plainly and honestly:

The mark is on it

Like the burl on the knife.

I have not made it for praise.

She has no more need for praise

Than summer has

Or the bright days.

In all that becomes a woman

Her words and her ways are beautiful:

Love's lovely duty,

the well-swept room.

Wherever she is there is sun

And time and a sweet air:

Peace is there,

Work done.

There are always curtains and flowers

And candles and baked bread

And a cloth spread

And a clean house.

Her voice when she sings is a voice

At dawn by a freshening spring

Where the wave leaps in the wind

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.