| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Housewife | | By Mildred Plew Merryman |
| | | IN that rich room it is not dusk, not day. | |
| A few late sunbeams fall like silver rain | |
| And pool themselves upon the counterpane; | |
| She does not notice when they move and stray. | |
| So peacefully she lies! Her fingers fray | 5 |
| The covering beneath, but in her brain | |
| She feels no knotting of the silken skein— | |
| So softly does life wind itself away. | |
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| While others, restless, mark the hours’ slow ebb, | |
| And stop the tinkling bell, the clicking gate; | 10 |
| Or trembling turn to listen, whisper, wait— | |
| While Death, the spider, weaves its gauzy web— | |
| There placidly she lies beneath its loom, | |
| Planning new curtains for the living-room. | | | | |
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