 | An idyl of work |  |
The mist became a rainfall, and that day
No Esther came, so the two women sat
And wound their friendship firm with genial talk
Each of the other's welfare, and of things
Wherein they found their aspirations blend.
For though this Miriam Willoughby had place
In high society, nor toiled nor spun
More than the lilies, with her lily hands
Still as unwrinkled as her face, while snows
Of threescore years had whitened on her head,
Her heart and brain held a whole lifetime full
Of sympathy and generous help, nor once
Allowed the thought that fortune, gifts, or birth,
Privileged arrogance, or permitted scorn
Of any toiler in the human hive.
No Esther came, so the two women sat
And wound their friendship firm with genial talk
Each of the other's welfare, and of things
Wherein they found their aspirations blend.
107
In high society, nor toiled nor spun
More than the lilies, with her lily hands
Still as unwrinkled as her face, while snows
Of threescore years had whitened on her head,
Her heart and brain held a whole lifetime full
Of sympathy and generous help, nor once
Allowed the thought that fortune, gifts, or birth,
Privileged arrogance, or permitted scorn
Of any toiler in the human hive.
| An idyl of work | |