University of Virginia Library

“The doctor he says I am dying, dying,
And yet it can scarce be true,
For I hear the poor children's crying, crying,
And I see just a gleam of blue
Up above in the clouds, that are fleeting, fleeting,
Over us in this horrible lane,
Like the eyes of an angel, greeting, greeting,
Through the crack in the dirty pane.
It is long since I saw the shining, shining,
Of the sun in its blessed power—
It is long since I felt the twining, twining,
Of my fingers in leaf and flower.
And it seems to me there is only, only
Contempt for the sick and the weak;
No one cares if our life is lonely, lonely,
If our sorrow we cannot speak;
No one pities the breast that is aching, aching,
In its sinful and dolorous nook,
And the heart that is nigh to breaking, breaking,
For the lack of a kindly look.
I have heard of the wealthy heaping, heaping,
A great pile of the precious gold,
When the helpless and hopeless are reaping, reaping,
But a harvest of want in the cold;
I have heard of the horses stamping, stamping
The good corn on the stable-ground,
While we shiver (when spared from tramping, tramping)
In a kennel not fit for a hound.
Do they know that we all are starving, starving,
Without even a crust of bread,
When the luckier folks are carving, carving,
From the joints on the table spread—
When the scraps to the dogs they are throwing, throwing,
That to us were a perfect feast?
Do they reck not of duties owing, owing,
To the poor, as the pampered beast?
Do they guess, when the feet go flying, flying,
In the dance with its giddy breath,
That they tread on their sisters lying, lying
At the bitter door of death?
Do they hear the moans that keep calling, calling,
Through the hush of the happy song?
Do they see the tear-drops falling, falling,
As they hurry and jest along?
For it seems so hard there is nothing, nothing,
In the beautiful world for me,
But the clouds and the general loathing, loathing,
And yet gloomier days to be—
Not a place or a portion fitting, fitting,
In the whole of the mighty land,
But this dingy hole, with the knitting, knitting,
Of the wan and wearied hand—
Not a smile for the children fretting, fretting,
In the healthful air and light,
Who just pine for the common petting, petting,
That would make their faces bright.
When I listen, I hear the sweeping, sweeping
Of the mournful wind outside;
And I look and I see the creeping, creeping
Of the shadows, that only deride
And gather around me mocking, mocking
At the grief I cannot stay;
While the ghosts of my sins come flocking, flocking,
Though I try my best to pray.
I will not believe I am sinking, sinking,
If the doctor tells me so;
For my head is full of thinking, thinking,
And my heart is big with woe.
And the darlings who need nursing, nursing,
In the hungry times of dearth—
Shall I leave them to the cursing, cursing
Of the cold and cruel earth?
Who will find them food, not often, often,
But at times a bite and sup,
With a mother's pains that soften, soften,
When the pretty eyes look up?
Who will trouble for their dressing, dressing,
Though they have such scanty clothes,
And will give a mother's blessing, blessing,
Instead of the awful oaths?
I am tired, and should be sleeping, sleeping,
If I only did not hear
The sound of the pitiful weeping, weeping,
Which is all I seem to fear.
Come, pets, for the shadows thicken, thicken,
Though it yet is hardly noon,
And strange throbbings somehow quicken, quicken,
And they must have resting soon.
Oh kiss me, and stop the crying, crying,
And close to my pillow keep;
I am tired, my loves, not dying, dying,
And I want a little sleep.”

She spoke, for her heart was breaking, breaking,
Till it found the solemn rest,
That has never on earth a waking, waking,
With the children on her breast.