Classic Poem

And those who do their washing in a stream
Are doubtless near relations of the ones
Who do their scrubbing in a sink or clean
The grime of cities in a tub. And stones
The outdoor women use to hold the field
Of white from flying off without a sound
Are possibly like those the earth must yield
To keep the corners of the sea aground.

In either case, the figures of the bent
Resemble semi-circles of the moon;
Their toes and hump and fingers curve assent
The while they cradle clothes in water and croon
A sort of lullaby above the soil
That men who labor gather while they toil.