Everyday Alchemy

Men go to women mutely for their peace;
And they, who lack it most, create it when
They make–because they must, loving their men–
A solace for sad bosom-bended heads. There
Is all the meager peace men get–no otherwhere;
No mountain space, no tree with placid leaves,
Or heavy gloom beneath a young girl's hair,
No sound of valley bell on autumn air,
Or room made home with doves along the eves,
Ever holds peace like this, poured by poor women
Out of their heart's poverty, for worn men.