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| II. |
 | Poems by Jean Ingelow |  |
Does she curse the song?
I think not, fishermen; I have not heard
Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough.
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing,
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show—
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse—
“My master is not worse than many men:”
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still;
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty
Bearing her down.
I think not, fishermen; I have not heard
Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough.
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing,
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show—
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse—
“My master is not worse than many men:”
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still;
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty
Bearing her down.
| Poems by Jean Ingelow | |