The Hidden Years
A POEM
A workman asked at a village door,
“Have you a bed, a chair,
A fallen shelf, a broken drawer,
A table to repair?”
The mistress looked from the dusty room
But went her dusty way:
She could not rest from brush and broom
To hear the lad today.
The busy daughter looked and sighed
And fretted as she spun,
“Another peddler?” “Yes,” replied
The mother, “Joseph’s son.”
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