 | An idyl of work |  |
The days that followed, in and out of doors,
With best home-cheer, and still fresh pages turned
Of wonder and of beauty, everywhere
The sun could lay his finger,—light of light
On the receding and advancing hills,
The sweet air like a flagon of new wine
Freshening their senses, wakening fantasies
That heretofore slept dreamless, making life
Seem nobler, better, dearer than itself,—
Those days were treasure which no flimsy wealth
Of words could represent. To some new world
They seemed translated.
Here was Minta's home
With her tall farmer-brother, Clement, who,
Had won a wife as sweet as he deserved,
A steady-natured and wise-hearted one,
Who toiled with him, not holding work the end
Of their joint life, but kept a margin clear
For studious thought, for books, for all that helped
The mother and the woman to be true;
So broadening, as she could, their rustic lot.
With best home-cheer, and still fresh pages turned
Of wonder and of beauty, everywhere
The sun could lay his finger,—light of light
On the receding and advancing hills,
The sweet air like a flagon of new wine
Freshening their senses, wakening fantasies
That heretofore slept dreamless, making life
Seem nobler, better, dearer than itself,—
Those days were treasure which no flimsy wealth
Of words could represent. To some new world
They seemed translated.
103
With her tall farmer-brother, Clement, who,
Had won a wife as sweet as he deserved,
A steady-natured and wise-hearted one,
Who toiled with him, not holding work the end
Of their joint life, but kept a margin clear
For studious thought, for books, for all that helped
The mother and the woman to be true;
So broadening, as she could, their rustic lot.
| An idyl of work | |