Poem in Prose
Archibald MacLeish, 1948
This poem is for my wife
I have made it plainly and honestly
The mark is on it
Like the burl of a knife
I have not made it for praise
She has no more need of praise
Than the summer has
Or the bright days
In all that becomes a woman
Her words and her ways are beautiful
Love’s lovely duty
The well-swept room
Wherever she is there is sun
And time and a sweet air
Peace is there
Work done
There are always curtains and flowers
And candles and baked bread
And a cloth spread
And a clean house
Her voice when she sings is a voice
At dawn by a freshening sea
Where the wave leaps
In the wind and rejoices
Wherever she is it is now
It is here where the apples are
Here in the stars
In the quick hour
The greatest and richest good—
My own life to live in—
This she has given me
If giver could