The sweatshop is smoky and gloomy and mean— I strive—oh, how vainly I strive to be clean! All day I am covered with grime and with dirt. You’d laugh,—but I long for a spotless white shirt! For life that is noble, ’tis needful, I ween, To work as a man should; and still be as clean. —So now ’tis your wish all in white to be dressed? In white they will robe you, and lay you to rest.

The woods they are cool, and the woods they are free;— To dream and to wander, how sweet it would be! The birds their eternal glad holiday keep; With song that enchants you and lulls you to sleep. ’Tis hot here,—and close! and the din will not cease. I long for the forest, its coolth and its peace. —Ay, cool you will soon be; and not only cool, But cold as no forest can make you, O Fool!

I long for a friend who will comfort and cheer, And fill me with courage when sorrow is near; A comrade, of treasures the rarest and best, Who gives to existence its crown and its crest; And I am an orphan—and I am alone; No friend or companion to call me his own. —Companions a-plenty—they’re numberless too; They’re swarming already and waiting for you.

 Whither?

(To a Young Girl)

Say whither, whither, pretty one? The hour is young at present! How hushed is all the world around! Ere dawn—the streets hold not a sound. O whither, whither do you run? Sleep at this hour is pleasant. The flowers are dreaming, dewy-wet; The bird-nests they are silent yet. Where to, before the rising sun The world her light is giving?

“To earn a living.”

O whither, whither, pretty child, So late at night a-strolling? Alone—with darkness round you curled? All rests!—and sleeping is the world. Where drives you now the wind so wild? The midnight bells are tolling! Day hath not warmed you with her light; What aid can’st hope then from the night? Night’s deaf and blind!—Oh whither, child, Light-minded fancies weaving?

“To earn a living.”

 From Dawn to Dawn

I bend o’er the wheel at my sewing; I’m spent; and I’m hungry for rest; No curse on the master bestowing,— No hell-fires within me are glowing,— Tho’ pain flares its fires in my breast.

I mar the new cloth with my weeping, And struggle to hold back the tears; A fever comes over me, sweeping My veins; and all through me goes creeping A host of 

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