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PROMETHEA, by                    
First Line: Before the february day / yellows the window-pane once more
Last Line: His equal, who brought fire to earth!
Subject(s): Housewives


BEFORE the February day
Yellows the window-pane once more,
I hear her on her slipshod way
Clatter outside my bedroom door,
Unshrined and all unknown to fame—
To me a goddess just the same!

Hers was no columned Grecian grove,
Hers no be-ferned Sicilian fount;
No shepherd of the white-fleeced drove
Adjudged her fair on Ida's mount,—
Nor did she in the dark unbar
The dawn gate for the sun-god's car!

Yet, ere the laggard milkman cries,
Ill-nurtured nymph of household care
She comes, poor child, with heavy eyes
Adown the creaky lodging stair,
To struggle with the Stygian gloom
Of fog that fills the dining-room!

Coarse-fingered, grimy as to face
From scuttle, pan, or window-sill;
Well, was the very rosiest Grace
So fit to merit man's good-will
As she, who comes in low estate,
Poor little drudge, to lay the grate?

And when the glow of kindly flame
Leaps 'neath her touch to warm and cheer
The cockles of the human frame,
Its little handmaid doth appear,
For sheer humanitarian worth,
His equal, who brought Fire to Earth!





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