One Woman’s Work

(By Emma Endicott Marean)
“Who having little, yet hath all.”
A narrow sphere – how can you call it so?
Three pairs of baby eyes look up in mine,
And seem the gates through which a light divine
Transfigures my life with tenderest glow.
Because I cannot paint with artist skill
The changing colors of the sea or sky.
Because I cannot write of visions high
And move you all with pain or joy at will.
Because to learning’s shrine no gifts I bring,
Nor take a foremost stand for woman’s cause,
Because I trust unquestioning the laws,
That bring us snow in Winter, birds in Spring
You think my life is circumscribed and cold
In what should make it helpful, rich and strong.
Ah, friend! these happy days are none too long
For all the loving duties that they hold
Nor has the art you love been all denied,
For loveliest pictures every day I see
In childhood’s careless grace and movements free
From waking morn till dreamy eventide.
My Edith’s braids, now brown, now golden bright,
Imprison tints no artist’s brush has known;
The baby’s beep-blue eyes, that meet my own
In living beauty mock all painted light
Nor do you know, my friend, the critics bond
We story tellers in the children find -
What store of wisdom and of wit combined
We need to point a moral new or old.
And in reforms are we not learning late
A still, small voice need not be all in vain?
These childish hands may bring the greater gain
If I am willing now to simply wait.
And what in science or philosophy
Can pass in interest the baby heart,
Seeking in untried ways to take it’s part
For good or ill in life’s great mystery?
God help us mothers all to live aright,
And may our homes all truth and love enfold
Since life for us no loftier aims can hold
Than leading little children in the light!