Be still, my little, dancing feet
That would go satin-shod!
The road that leads to Workaday
Is long, and straight, and broad.

Be still, my little, eager hands
That clutch at wing and bloom!
The dust-cloth needs a quiet grip,
And steady hands, a broom.

Be still, my little, singing voice
That reaches for a word!
The diligent and competent
Are seen, and never heard.

Be still, my little, restless heart
That flutters at a glance!
What would a little kitchen maid
Be doing with romance?