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.