She fed the quail that gathered at the door
In winter time, and stroked the young colt’s head,
Or rolled a ball along the kitchen floor
To tease the orphan lamb, that had its bed
Behind the stove, to rollicking about.
She only opened up the fabled box
Of baby clothes to shake the wrinkles out,
Or add new sprigs of mignonette and phlox.
She’d wait to hear him call the cows at night,
Counted ten before he closed the gate,
Watched the pattern of his swinging light,
Smoothed the table-cloth when he was late;
But when he laid his head upon her breast,
Her minute sorrow sang itself to rest.
This piece originally appeared in New Strung Bow, a book of poems written by Sarah Lawrence students that was published in 1932.