vi 

vi

In summer time of flowers and bees

And flies on the pane,

Before the sun could gild the trees

Or set afire the vane,

Down I must go upon my knees,

Or ply the showering mop;

Then feed the chicken, ducks and geese,

And milk the last drop.

On winter mornings dark and hard,

White from aching bed,

There were the huddled fowls in yard

All to be fed.

My frozen breath stream'd from my lips,

The cows were hid in steam;

I lost sense of my finger-tips

And milkt in a dream.

My drowsy cheek fast to her side,

The pail below my arm,

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