Our age, in all its folly, thinks
That she who chooses hearth and home life shrinks
From fullness of adventure, of life’s glory,
That hers is but a dull, short story.
But were the truth to once be seen,
They’d hail her as a champion, a warrior queen.
Her kingdom may be small, but oh, it’s deep,
And so wild its keepers can take but little sleep.
Day by mad day, chaos’s flooding force
Into her realm presses its course;
With patient vigil and with shrewd stratagem
That tide she finds new ways to turn or stem.
Amid the pressing jungle, for the wild things
She raises a fair dwelling, and to it brings
All things needful. This castle she looks after
Armed with her mighty weapons, love and laughter.
Warriors of more renown, on fields of blood,
May fight for worthy ends, and maybe do some good,
And yet there’s sorrow in a trade
That must destroy so much that God has made.
But the queen of the hearth fights not as they;
Her tactics, toils, valor are not to slay
But to bring forth life, make it thrive and grow,
To lead the Wild Things the way they ought to go.
And though on this dim earth no man may know nor sing
Her labors, deeds, adventures, great heart unwavering,
In courts beyond, where every story will be known,
Shall angel-minstrels tell the tale of the queen of hearth and home.