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The bus}' men in the hay-field working, 

 If they saw her sitting with idle hand. 



Would think her lazy, and call it shirking, 

 And she never could make them understand. 



They do not know that the heart within her 



Hungers for beauty and things sublime; 

 They only know that they want their dinner — 



Plenty of it — and just "on time." 

 And after the sweeping and churning and baking, 



And dinner dishes are all put by. 

 She sits and sews, though her head is aching, 



Till time for supper and "chores" draws nigh. 



Her boys at school must look like others, 



She says, as she patches their frocks and hose; 

 For the world is quick to censure mothers, 



For the least neglect of children's clothes. 

 Her husband comes from the field of labor ; 



He gives no praise to the weary wife ; 

 She's done no more than has her neighbor; 



'Tis the lot of all in country life. 



But after the strife and weary tussle f 



With life is done, and she lies at rest, 

 The nation's brain sfad heart and muscle — 



Her sons and daughters — shall call her blest: 

 And I think the sweetest joy of heaven, 



The rarest bliss of eternal life, 

 And the fairest crown of all will be given 



Unto the way-worn farmer's wife. 



