Classic Poem

Let her not lift a feeble voice and cry,
“What is my work?” and fret at bars and bands,
While all about her life's plain duties lie,
Waiting undone beneath her idle hands,
The noblest life oft hath, for warp and woof,
Small, steady-running threads of daily care;
Where patient love, beneath some lowly roof,
Its poem sweet is weaving unaware,

And soft and rich and rare the web shall be.
O wife, and mother, tender brave and true,
Rejoice, be glad! and bend a thankful knee
To God, who giveth thee thy work to do.