THE FARMER S WIFE.
But the cellar, the milk-room, the kitchen, To bake and to sweep and to sew,
From rising of sun to its setting,
Is the round of her days, never new.
From the kitten that plays on the threshold, To the harvest-hands, hungry and brown,
Her thought must be ever unceasing, Her care for them never laid down.
O strong man, bring in from the meadow Kind words to the worker inside,
And remember the true, faithful helper May falter some time from your side.
Then your eyes will be opened in wonder That, blinded, you let her toil on,
Till the bride you once promised to cherish, The mother, the housewife, is gone.
Then the worn face at rest in the coffin
Its pitiful story shall tell. O busy man, stop in the furrow,
If needs be, to think, Is it well ?