Classic Poem

Though the mist is all over our valley,
And floods cut us from the town,
You and I, with our Mary and Sally,
Are not for a moment cast down:

We know that the sun is above us,
We know that the sky is still blue;
We know that the women who love us
Are here—and have plenty to do!

For surely no better enjoyment
A husband or wife could desire,
Than to have just so much of employment
As home and its blessings require.

And as for the country about us,
So silent, so sleepy, so grey,
It is beautiful, with or without us
Who add to its beauty to-day.

Yes, we add very much to its beauty;
For all the dim landscape is warm
With the love and the hope and the duty
That live in this one little farm.

So what will it be in the summer,
Or even ere that, in the spring,
When Mary expects a newcomer
To play with her bright wedding ring?

Yet, while Nature is lonely and idle,
And sombre and dreary and wan,
There is nothing in her that can bridle
The masterful spirit of Man:

His place in her vast panorama,
His share in her queenly renown,
His part in her wonderful drama,
Is greater, just then, than her own;

He can rule her and guide her and keep her,
And set her her work for the year;
His insight is wider and deeper
Than hers, in her early career:

But when she comes forth in her glory,
The life and the leafage of June—
When the birds are all singing her story,
And every sweet sound is in tune;

Oh, then he must cease to be master,
And work with his hands like a slave,
Though he knows that his work will outlast her,
And she will go first to the grave.

Meanwhile, we are happy together,
Alone with each other once more;
And the mists and the floods and the weather
Are nothing at all to us four!