Poem by Florence Earle Coates

An Idler

She cannot wind the distaff,
⁠     She can nor bake nor brew;
Her hands are indeed too dainty
⁠     Such labors to pursue.

She cares not to follow the harvest,
⁠     She neither can sow nor glean,
But waits for the weary reapers
     ⁠With cheerful calm serene.

Commanding all to serve her,
     ⁠From service she is free;
But, ah, my babe so helpless
⁠     Is health and wealth to me!

1. Probation
2. Sappho
3. Tennyson
4. Before the Hour
5. Combatants

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