By Mary Watts

For my son, there will be food,

And, for me, spices.

For my scholar-husband, the light,

With cool drink, in honored shades:

And a measure of property in Arcadia.

For I shall hold my household safe

From golden temptations—

Of that dim world,

Where there is no youth;

That realm of supplicants,

Who are no more

Than a front for huddled, unseen beggars!

I await the bright time of freedom,

And its rise over excess and greed.

[Another poem by Mary Watts]