LAST SONNET

BRIGHT star! would I were steadfast as thou

art

Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of
pure
ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:
No yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever or else swoon to death.

W

Hood

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

ITH 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, O, to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

Till the brain begins to swim!

Work work work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"O men with sisters dear!

O men with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch stitch - stitch,

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!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags,

That shattered roof — and this naked floor

And a wall so blank my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

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.

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.

"O, 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!

-

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!"