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To a Celestial House-wife

O hills, I would that you might bathe her brows

In your high balm;

Too many little matters of the house

Destroy her calm.

She must be gay while others fume and fret,

And, all day long,

The business of her own deep soul forget,

With merry tongue.

Would that on her this brook, with morning spell,

Might lay its hand,

Talking with liquid lulling syllable

Through the green land.

She has sore need of these immortal things,

So blue and still;

To sit her down by the eternal springs,

And drink her fill.