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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PHILLIS'S AGE by MATTHEW PRIOR ON HEARING AN AEOLIAN HARP by PETER BAYLEY JR. LINES WRITTEN AT GENEVA by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE GATES OF PARADISE; FOR THE SEXES by WILLIAM BLAKE A WOMAN'S SONNETS: 8 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT LINES ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARDS by THOMAS CAMPBELL |