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Poem in Prose
By Archibald MacLeish
 

This poem is for my wife.

I have made it plainly and honestly;
The mark is on it
Like the burl on the knife.

I have not made it for praise.

She has no more need for praise
Than summer has
Or the bright days.

Wherever she is there is sun

And time and a sweet air;
Peace is there,
Work done.

There are always curtains and flowers

And candles and baked bread
And a cloth spread
And a clean home.

Her voice when she sings is a voice

At dawn by a freshening sea
Where the wave leaps in the
Wind and rejoices.

Wherever she is it is now.

It is here where the apples are;
Here in the stars,
In the quick hour.

The greatest and richest good,

My own life to live in,
This she has given me―

If giver could.