Classic Poem

You see that hospitable red-roofed house, —
A little isle of red amid green trees? —
Often and often have I brushed the boughs
That hide its garden, gathering with the bees.

There, in that house, a lonely woman lives,
With wild and hapless promptings in her soul,
Rich in the silver gifts that this world gives,
But lacking with them all love's golden dole.

If she had only lived in earlier times,
In those old times whose history is romance,
She might have sped young lovers 'neath the limes,
Or sailed some joyous night for merry France.

But there she lives her silent angry life
From day to day, the se'nnight's ordered round;
Milking and baking, clanging bowl and knife,
A mistress of the world in homespun bound.

Green, happy nook! the little garden's sweet,
And blithe at morning-time the blackbird's song:
Ah, Fate's a jester, there has tied her feet,
Far from life's courtly floors, and pomp and throng.