Classic Poem

To write a book of household song,
WithouTone verse to thee,
Whom I have known and loved so long,
Were all unworthy me.

Have I not seen thy needle plied
With as much ready glee,
As if it were thy greatest pride
A sempstress famed to be!

Have I not ate pies, pudding, tarts,
And bread, thy hands had kneaded,
All excellent — as if those arts
Were all that thou hadst heeded?

Have I not seen thy cheerful smile,
And heard thy voice as gay,
As if such household cares, the while,
To thee were sport and play?

Yet can thy pencil copy well
Landscape, or flower, or face;
And thou canst waken music's spell
With simple, natural grace.

Thus variously to play thy part,
Before thy teens are spent,
Honours far more thy head and heart,
Than mere accomplishment!

So wear the wreath thou well hast won;
And be it understood
I frame it not in idle fun
For girlish womanhood.

But in it may a lesson lurk,
Worth teaching now-a-days;
That girls may do all household work,
Nor lose a poet's praise!