I must be dreaming through the days
And see the world with childish eyes
If I’d go singing all my life
And my songs be wise
And in the kitchen or the house
Must wonder at the sights I see.
And I must hear the throb and hum
That moves to song in factory.
So much in life remains unsung,
And so much more than love is sweet.
I’d like a song of kitchenmaids
With steady fingers and swift feet.
And I could sing about the rest
That breaks upon a woman’s day
When dinner’s over and she lies
Upon her bed to dream and pray
Until the children come from school
And all her evening work begins.
There’s more in life than tragic love
And all the storied, splendid sins.