Jane Blanchard
Penelope
A man like mine could not stay home,
Not for a wife, nor for a son,
With all the rousing world to roam,
Sights to be seen, wars to be won.
Though he set sail so long ago,
There is a lot I still recall,
And life without him seems too slow.
Each day I work; each night I stall.
At times this house gets full and loud
As lesser men compete for me.
I never do enjoy that crowd,
Yet offer hospitality.
Most waking hours I weave and wait.
My husband may return too late.