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

'Work--work--work!
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread--and rags.
That shattered roof--and this naked floor,--
A table,--a broken chair,--
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there.

'Work--work--work
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,
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,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch--stitch--stitch!
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 STARS ARE WITH THE VOYAGER

THE stars are with the voyager,
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time,
The sun will never fail,
But follow, follow, round the world,
The green earth and the sea;
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light,
The moon will veil her in the shade,
The sun will set at night;
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away,
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.

RUTH

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss