Make no deep scrutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas for the rarity O, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed: Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood with amazement, Houseless by night. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!” "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the stars shine through the roof? Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! Till the brain begins to swim! Work work work Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, “O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread A shroud as well as a shirt. "But why do I talk of death? O, God! that bread should be so dear, ❝ Work work work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof and this naked floor And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank From weary chime to chime, Work- work work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "Work- work - work, In the dull December light, |