A wife and mother – is it not /

Enough for me to be content? /

What other blessing could be sent?/ 

A quiet house, and homely ways, /

That make each day like other days;/ 

I only see Time’s shadow now/

Darken the hair on baby’s brow! /

No world’s work ever comes to me, /

No beggar brings his misery; /

I have no power, no healing art /

With bruised soul or broken heart. /

I read the poets of the age,/

’Tis lotus-eating in a cage;/

I study Art, but Art is dead/ 

To one who clamors to be fed /

With milk from Nature’s rugged breast, /

Who longs for Labor’s lusty rest. /

O foolish wish! I still should pine /

If any other lot were mine.