Classic Poem

" Only an editor's wife, " they say,
As she rides along in her proud coupe;
But they all confess that her face is fair,
That her form is lovely beyond compare,
That her robes are rich and her jewels rare,
That her heart is warm and her gold is free;
Yet " only an editor's wife " is she!

Do they envy her laces and silks so grand,
Or the diamonds she wears on her white left hand,
Or the satin train that sweeps in her track,
Or the elegant three-ply sealskin sack
That gracefully covers her shapely back?
Or why do the people derisively cry
When " only an editor's wife " rides by?

Do they envy the palace where she abides,
Or the gilded coach in which she rides,
Or her yacht that sports with the lake's white foam,
Or the troop of servants that go and come
To do her will in her regal home?
Do they envy her gold when they descry
That it's " only an editor's wife " goes by?

They never think of the man who writes
Through the weary days and the darksome nights,
To earn the ducats with which to pay
For the laces fine and the jewels gay,
And the robes en train and decollete,
And the other trappings that greet the eye
When " only an editor's wife " sails by.

Oh, could they go to his working-place,
And see his furrowed and pallid face,
And know the grind of his daily life, —
How he freely encounters all toil and strife
To humor the whims of his petted wife, —
Methinks they would raise their plaudits high
When " only an editor's wife " rode by.