I was the daughter of Lambert Hutchins, <br />Born in a cottage near the grist-mill, <br />Reared in the mansion there on the hill, <br />With its spires, bay-windows, and roof of slate. <br />How proud my mother was of the mansion! <br />How proud of father's rise in the world! <br />And how my father loved and watched us, <br />And guarded our happiness. <br />But I believe the house was a curse, <br />For father's fortune was little beside it; <br />And when my husband found he had married <br />A girl who was really poor, <br />He taunted me with the spires, <br />And called the house a fraud on the world, <br />A treacherous lure to young men, raising hopes <br />Of a dowry not to be had; <br />And a man while selling his vote <br />Should get enough from the people's betrayal <br />To wall the whole of his family in. <br />He vexed my life till I went back home <br />And lived like an old maid till I died, <br />Keeping house for father.<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lilian-stewart/
