C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

James Herbert Morse (1841–1923)

THOU needst not weave nor spin,

Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in,

Nor, forth afield at morn,

At eve bring home the corn,

Nor on a winter’s night

Make blaze the fagots bright.

So lithe and delicate,

So slender is thy state,

So pale and pure thy face,

So deer-like in their grace

Thy limbs, that all do vie

To take and charm the eye.

Thus, toiling where thou’rt not

Is but the common lot:

Three men mayhap alone

By strength may move a stone—

But, toiling near to thee,

One man may work as three,

If thou but bend a smile

To fall on him the while;

Or if one tender glance—

Though coy and shot askance—

His eyes discover, then

One man may work as ten.

Men commonly but ask,

“When shall I end my task?”

But seeing thee come in,

’Tis, “When may I begin?”

Such power does beauty bring

To take from toil its sting.

If then thou’lt do but this,—

Fling o’er the work a bliss

From thy mere presence,—none

Shall think thou’st nothing done:

Thou needst not weave nor spin,

Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in.