Poems (Larcom)/Prudence
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PRUDENCE.
WHAT is this round world to Prudence,
With her round, black, restless eyes,
But a world for knitting stockings,
Sweeping floors, and baking pies?
With her round, black, restless eyes,
But a world for knitting stockings,
Sweeping floors, and baking pies?
'T is a world that women work in,
Sewing long seams, stitch by stitch:
Barns for hay, and chests for linen;—
'T is a world where men grow rich.
Sewing long seams, stitch by stitch:
Barns for hay, and chests for linen;—
'T is a world where men grow rich.
Ten years old is little Prudence;
Ten years older still she seems,
With her busy eyes and fingers,
With her grown-up thoughts and schemes.
Ten years older still she seems,
With her busy eyes and fingers,
With her grown-up thoughts and schemes.
Sunset is the time for candles;
Cows are milked at fall of dew;
Beans will grow, and melons ripen,
When the summer skies are blue.
Cows are milked at fall of dew;
Beans will grow, and melons ripen,
When the summer skies are blue.
Is there more than work in living?
Yes; a child must go to school,
And to meeting every Sunday;
Not a heathen be, or fool.
Yes; a child must go to school,
And to meeting every Sunday;
Not a heathen be, or fool.
Something more has haunted Prudence
In the song of bird and bee,
In the low wind's dreamy whisper
Through the light-leaved poplar-tree.
In the song of bird and bee,
In the low wind's dreamy whisper
Through the light-leaved poplar-tree.
Something lingers, bends above her,
Leaning at the mossy well;
Some sweet murmur from the meadows;
On the air some gentle spell.
Leaning at the mossy well;
Some sweet murmur from the meadows;
On the air some gentle spell.
But she will not stop to listen:—
Maybe there are witches yet!
So she runs away from beauty;
Tries its presence to forget.
Maybe there are witches yet!
So she runs away from beauty;
Tries its presence to forget.
T is the way her mother taught her;
Prudence is not much to blame.
Work is good for child or woman;
Childhood's jailer,—'tis a shame!
Prudence is not much to blame.
Work is good for child or woman;
Childhood's jailer,—'tis a shame!
Gravely at the romping children
Their gray heads the gossips shake;
Saying, with a smile for Prudence,
"What a good wife she will make!"
Their gray heads the gossips shake;
Saying, with a smile for Prudence,
"What a good wife she will make!"