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.

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