noon, when about me the wild tumult ceases, And gone is the master, and I sit apart, And dawn in my brain is beginning to glimmer, The wound comes agape at the core of my heart; And tears, bitter tears flow; ay, tears that are scalding; They moisten my dinner—my dry crust of bread; They choke me,—I cannot eat;—no, no, I cannot! Oh, horrible toil I born of Need and of Dread.

The sweatshop at mid-day—I’ll draw you the picture: A battlefield bloody; the conflict at rest; Around and about me the corpses are lying; The blood cries aloud from the earth’s gory breast. A moment... and hark! The loud signal is sounded, The dead rise again and renewed is the fight... They struggle, these corpses; for strangers, for strangers! They struggle, they fall, and they sink into night.

I gaze on the battle in bitterest anger, And pain, hellish pain wakes the rebel in me! The clock—now I hear it aright!—It is crying: “An end to this bondage! An end there must be!” It quickens my reason, each feeling within me; It shows me how precious the moments that fly. Oh, worthless my life if I longer am silent, And lost to the world if in silence I die.

The man in me sleeping begins to awaken; The thing that was slave into slumber has passed: Now; up with the man in me! Up and be doing! No misery more! Here is freedom at last! When sudden: a whistle!—the Boss—an alarum!— I sink in the slime of the stagnant routine;— There’s tumult, they struggle, oh, lost is my ego;— I know not, I care not, I am a machine!...

 My Boy

I have a little boy at home, A pretty little son; I think sometimes the world is mine In him, my only one.

But seldom, seldom do I see My child in heaven’s light; I find him always fast asleep... I see him but at night.

Ere dawn my labor drives me forth; ’Tis night when I am free; A stranger am I to my child; And strange my child to me.

I come in darkness to my home, With weariness and—pay; My pallid wife, she waits to tell The things he learned to say.

How plain and prettily he asked: “Dear mamma, when’s ‘Tonight’? O when will come my dear papa And bring a penny bright?”

I hear her words—I hasten out— This moment must it be!— The father-love flames in my breast: My child must look at me!

I stand beside the tiny cot, And look, and list, and—ah! A 

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