University of Virginia Library

Thin and thinner every anxious day,
Slower and slower through the ghostly night,
Bound with bonds that cannot pass away,
Never broken, though concealed from sight;
Pale and paler, as the moments bring
Near and nearer the poor paltry gain,
Bow'd and bowing lower, fashioning
Dress of pleasure with the hands of pain;
Faint and fainter, while the hours go on,
Weak and weaker—like a shattered toy,
Here to-day, and then to-morrow gone,—
Sewing sighs into the garb of joy;
Sewing threads of dark and darker grief,
With each stitch, as fast the tear-drops flow,
Sewing sorrow that is past relief,
In the gown that is a fleeting show;
Sewing poisoned pangs that have no name,
Voiceless misery without an end,
In the thing that is a shining shame,
Where the gladness and the mourning blend;
Sewing all the woes of all the years,
Dim and dimmer with the deepening blight,
Hunger, thirst, misgivings, wants and fears,
In the garment for one festive night.
Sad and sadder, as the fingers catch
Feebly at the work, with nerveless hold,
For the constant strain a helpless match,
Beaten by the starving and the cold—
Beaten, yet pursuing, battling still
With the needle, woman's sorry sword,
Shaken by the cough that soon must kill,
Choking surely as the hangman's cord.
Sewing, sewing, sewing, as before,
For the penny pittance of the proud;
Sewing, sewing, sewing evermore,
At the dress that is her early shroud—
Sewing, sewing, sewing, night and day,
Sleepless, foodless, without hope or rest,
Slack and slacker in the grim decay,
That is now her bosom's only guest—
Sewing, sewing, sewing, day and night,
That the rich may revel in her art,
Just to give a bubble of delight,
While the worm is gnawing at her heart—
Sewing, sewing, sewing bitter sweat,
In the robe that may adorn a bride,
Driven, sobbing, by the slaver's threat,
Lest by others she be thrust aside—
Sewing, sewing, sewing drops of blood,
That are idly in the shadow shed,
Borne along upon the corpse-strewn flood,
As the ghastly headlong race is sped—
Sewing, sewing, sewing thread of life,
All her virgin grace and woman's health,
In the losing and unequal strife,
To add something to a miser's wealth—
Sewing, sewing, sewing, late and lorn,
In the fever of the tortured haste,
Noble thoughts of her young maiden morn,
Flowers of feeling, run to weed and waste—
Sewing, sewing, sewing, without stay,
Precious fancies, that should give the earth
The effulgence of a fairer day,
Set in darkness and untimely dearth—
Sewing, sewing, sewing glorious strength,
That was meant for higher, holier deeds,
And fine fruitage, which had come at length,
Nipp'd and frozen by the wintry needs—
Sewing, sewing, sewing, a white slave,
Through the silence that is thick with doom,
For the dusty harvest of the grave,
And the grim inexorable gloom—
Sewing, sewing, sewing, long and lone,
Sick and wretched, with but life to spend,
For the spoilers and the breasts of stone,
For the pall that is her only friend—
Sewing, sewing, sewing her last breath,
At the post of duty dying sore,
Till, less cruel far than man, falls death,
And the weary hands can sew no more.

Epitaph.

Sewing, sewing, sewing for the vain,
Who know nothing of the awful cost,
All the blank infinity of pain,
And care nothing for their sisters lost,