Dominga Primo

I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick, I made the grade, and for holidays rambled over the fields where sang the irks, and by spoon river gathering many a shell, and many flowers and medicinal weed - shouting to the wooden hills, singing to the green valleys. At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all, and passed to a sweet repose. what is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, life is too strong for you - it takes life to love life (spoon river Anthology)