AN IDLER, a poem

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 sew 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!

"An Idler" by Florence Earle Coates. Published in Harper's Weekly (23 May 1891), Poems (1898) and Poems (1916) Volume II.