For when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed- she had
Another morn than ours.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

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! And work-work-work

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

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?
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own
It seems so like my own
Because of the fasts I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work

work-work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread

and rags.

That shatter'd roof and this naked floor

A table a broken chair —

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there.

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work - work,
In the dull December light!

And work work — work,

When the weather is warm and bright!

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet!
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour!

A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the rich!
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THE DAY IS DONE

Thomas Hood

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow