Her hands are lovely, yet they are not white,

Silent her work, and all unknown to fame.
    Of loud, for sounding praise she never dreams.
The world!s great trumpeter's know not her name.
Her steady light is no wide-flaring flame;
    'Tis but a fireside lamp, that softly gleams.

I do not know^___I think her way is best.
    Her husband trusts her, and her children rise
With sweetly smiling lips, and call her blest.
She does her duty, leaves to God the rest.