Classic Poem

M ARTHA , the sister of Mary, one day in Bethany,
Pressing the curded cheese flakes, paused quite thoughtfully,
Flushed was her brow at the fireplace, red were her hands,
Dark o'er her shoulders her hair fell, loosely in strands.
White was the floor underneath, but her garments were soiled;
Noon-tide was coming and Martha since morning had toiled;
Cool were the grape-arbor shadows that seemed to entreat
Her to come to the green of the vineyard away from the heat.

There, 'neath the shade of a fig-tree, Mary, her sister, sat.
Listening so breathlessly silent she wondered thereat,
Turning her delicate face, half a flush on her cheek,
Up to the eyes that spoke as no others could speak.
Gentle the face that, above her, shone as he smiled,
Resting his hand on her head as if on a child;
Whether he trembled in touching the listening maid,
Martha herself could not tell us,—they sat in the shade.

Then was she troubled, for Martha was weary, and she
Knew all at once that her garments were sweaty to see,
Yet was the dinner not ready, and much was to do,—
Martha, the sister of Mary, who loved Jesus, too.
So, as she stood at the threshold, loudly she cried,
“Jesus, O Master, send Mary to work at my side.”

When he rebuked her for asking, and smiled upon Mary anew,
Haply, he knew not he did it; but Martha, her sister, knew.