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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.

by Archibald MacLeish
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