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.