He smiled, and stooping down,
Kissed her cheek—“’twas this, that you were the best
And the dearest wife in town!”
The farmer went back to the field, and the wife,
In a smiling, absent way,
Sang snatches of tender little songs
She’d not sung for many a day.
And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;
Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet,