Before the broom, before I mix the mop,
I bend before the closet where they live,
and wish well all those who have cleaned a shop,
those who such humble service ever give.
For when I take their task for me alone,
I cannot feel but bitter solitude.
My trembling hands take up the chores of home
with tender tears and melancholy mood.
I must bow to the hosts who did, before,
obey the call to do a task like this
with little thanks. I must not do a chore
alone, and, all who know the same, dismiss.
And when I do bow down, I feel them there,
who answer warmly every lonely prayer.