Archibald MacLeish

(7 May 1892 – 20 April 1982 / Glencoe, Illinois)

Poem In Prose - Poem by Archibald MacLeish

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,
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 spring
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.


Comments about Poem In Prose by Archibald MacLeish

  • Veteran Poet - 1,815 Points Cynthia Buhain-baello (7/7/2009 2:11:00 AM)

    Beautful. Today this could refer to a maid. (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: poem, woman, summer, beautiful, spring, house, work, peace, wind, sun, time, life, flower, women, star



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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