When Mary makes the bread there gleams A glad, triumphant light Within her eyes which somehow seems To taunt me as I write. I see her with her sleeves rolled high, With gingham apron, neat, Her fingers deftly knead, while I Am marveling at her feat. A picture sweet she makes, I think, With flour on her nose, Her cheeks a glowing, wholesome pink, A-blushing like a rose. Her hair in ringlets soft and brown Adds beauty to the scene, What though there's dough upon her gown, Her heart, I'm sure, is clean. But poets are mere mortal men, And I am like the rest, For while these beauteous charms I ken, I like her product best. And though I tease and say she bakes Her bread as hard as stone, I'm mighty pleased whene'er she makes A batch of bread alone. And I am sure that you'll agree, That after all is said, And you have dined or lunched with me, Our Mary CAN make bread. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GHOSTS OF A LUNATIC ASYLUM by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH WESTERN CIVILIZATION by JAMES GALVIN THE EXECUTIVE by DAVID IGNATOW TO MARY CHURCH TERRELL - LECTURER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 4. THE LOTTERY GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE HARD TIMES IN ELFLAND; A STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE by SIDNEY LANIER |