Poem in Prose
This poem is for my wife.
I have made it plainly and honestly:
The mark is on it
Like the burl on the knife.
I have not made it for praise.
She has no more need for praise
Than 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,
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 spring
Where the wave leaps in the wind
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.
Archibald MacLeish's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Poem in Prose by Archibald MacLeish )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Robert Louis Stevenson
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(31 March 1934 – 31 May 2009)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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