vii

I dare not trace that watching space Of days, too short, too long— Too long to wear a patient face, Too short to wear a strong. I us'd to think I'd have him choose His duty and begone; And then, No, no, I dare not lose Him ere he take his son!

Too long, too short the days to wait, To plan and think and dread; And happy we whose poor estate Claims our work for our bread. Each day I went to scour and scrub As my mother us'd, Or stood before the washing-tub Where the linen sluiced.

And so my love with careful hand And careful eye Led his white flock about the land; And I must sigh, "There's no rebelling in a poor man's dwelling, The roof stoops to the blast; And no heart-swelling meets God's compelling, And what is cast is cast!"