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Poem by Florence Earle Coates
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!
Florence Earle Coates
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