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