A tower, no ivy, I. The wind was powerless,
horns lunging round and round me like a bull's.
It stirred up clouds of dust to north and south
and in quarters I've forgotten or never knew.
But I endured, foundations deep in earth,
walls broad, heart strong
and warm within, defending my own brood.
Sorrow was closer kin than any of those.
Not the favorite, not the eldest. But a kinsman
agreeable in the chores, humble at table,
a shadowy teller of tales beside the fire.
There were times he went off hunting far away
at the masculine call
of his steady pulse, his eye sharp on the target.
He returned with game, consigned it
to a helper shrewd with the knife
and the zealous care of women.
On retiring I'd say: What a fine
piece of work my hands are weaving out of the hours.
From girlhood on I kept before my eyes
a handsome sampler;
was ambitious to copy its figure; wished no more.
Unmarried, I lived chaste while that was right;
later was loyal to one, to my own husband.
Never a dawn that found me still asleep,
never a night that overtook me till
the beehive hum of my home had sunk to rest.
The house of my lord was rich with works of my hand;
his lands stretched out to horizons.
And so that his name would not die
when his body died,
he had sons of me; they were valiant sons; had stamina.
Of 