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