I should be happy with my lot:
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 nay other lot were mine.