  Sometimes I long to write an ode And magnify his name, The man of honor, on the road To opulence and fame, On whom was never aid bestowed By any helpful dame. To all the world I fain would show That talent widely known, Rare eloquence, of burning glow To melt a heart of stone, That all his gifts, a dazzling row, Are his, and his alone. But him, of character and mind Superb, alert, and strong, I never study but to find The subject of my song, Some paragon of womankind, Has helped him all along. He may not know, he may not guess, How much to her he owes, How every scion of success Developed by her watchfulness, Becomes a blooming rose. From buffetings in humble place, And labors ill begun, To proud achievement in the race And laurels grandly won, His trials all she dares to face As friend and champion. The bars that hinder his advance And half obscure the goal, The stubborn bond of circumstance That irritates his soul, The countershafts of arrogance, All yield to her control. He builds a tower—she below Is handing up the bricks; His light is brilliant just as though Her hand had trimmed the wicks; He prays for daily bread—the dough A woman deigns to mix. |
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