Industry and Filial Piety

Rarely my creepers grow
Into the vale they flow:
O, 'tis a leafy sea!
Golden orioles, taking flight,
Now on the bosky trees alight,
Chirruping all with glee.

Rarely my creepers grow!
Into the vale they flow;
Thick are their leafy beds.
These will I cut, prepare, and boil,
Lawn, coarse and fine, that ne'er will soil,
Weaving out of their threads.

Then let the matron know,
Know I must homewards go;
So be my wardrobe clean;
So be my robes rinsed free from spot.
Which then be sullied, and which be not?
Parents must aye be seen.