Classic Poem

She is at the wash-tub,
Busy as a bee,
Washing of her household things
In a soapy sea;

Scrubbing them and pounding them,
Wringing them aloft —
Till her wet and homely hands
Now at least are soft;

Till the linen flutters
Out in open air,
Pleasant to her gazing eyes —
For she hung it there.

She, with arms so sinewy,
And with wrists so strong,
Always knows the thing to do —
Never does it wrong!

Hers are not a lady's hands,
Nor a lady's arms;
She has but a peasant's skill,
And a peasant's charms:

But the stains of labour
And the taint of toil
Touch with pathos everywhere
What they seem to spoil;

And there is a beauty
More than rank confers,
More than symmetry can give,
In such arms as hers.

How the snowy foamflakes
Kiss her ruddy skin!
How they weave their lacework
O'er the arm within!

Is not such a contrast
More impressive far
Than the flash of jewels
Where no duties are,

Where among the ladies
In their halls of light,
'Tis the rubies that are red,
And the arms are white?

She at least would think so,
If she ever knew
What the gentlefolks approve,
What the ladies do.

Ah, and someone else, too,
By her cottage fire,
Wonders how those busy arms
Never seem to tire!

Tis the man she works for,
'Tis the man she loves;
He whose ring is part of her
Like the turtle-dove's;

He who sees her labour
And her lowly life
In the glow of loving hearts:
For she is his wife.