I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot

  Each joy domestic of my little cot.

  For at this hour my wife with watchful care

  Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare,

  The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied

  And my poor children prattled at my side.

  Methinks I see the old oak table spread,

  The clean white trencher and the good brown bread,

  The cheese my daily food which Mary made,

  For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade:

  The jug of cyder,—cyder I could make,

  And then the knives—I won 'em at the wake.

  Another has them now! I toiling here

  Look backward like a child and drop a tear.