WIVES by DOUGLAS MALLOCH

I think no husband comprehends
The life of woman, she who 'tends
His house and home, the busy wife
Who has her own, her humble strife,
Like him who leads the larger life.

Refreshed, each morning man will rise,
Go forth to meet the dawning skies,
Go forth where victories are found,
Where bugles blare and cymbals sound,
While she takes up the daily round.

His life is color, motion, change,
Each day's experiences strange;
New faces, pleasures, problems, plans,
The ever-passing caravans
Of busy earth -- this life is man's.

Today is like her yesterday,
With simple labor, simple play,
To her whose part it is to keep
The cottage -- mend, and bake, and sweep,
And sew white linen for his sleep.

She has her problems none the less
Than you in all your world of stress --
The children's ills, and all the things
That ev'ry day to woman brings,
For ev'ry light some shadow flings.

And so tonight, when you come home
From that wide world that husbands roam,
Remember all the day she stood,
Made holy by her motherhood,
To guard your home and keep it good.

The father absent, she has been
Both father, mother -- safe from sin
Has kept the children you embrace.
Your house you build, but woman's grace
Has made your house a holy place.

You bring your wife a hurried kiss;
But, husband, bring her more than this:
Whatever heavy load you bear,
Tell her tonight you know, and care,
She bears her own, and equal, share.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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