Labor, with Preludes on Current Events

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1880 - 295 páginas
 

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Página 18 - Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings...
Página 180 - Forasmuch as the good education of children is of singular behoof and benefit to any commonwealth, and whereas many parents and masters are too indulgent and negligent of their duty in that kind...
Página 156 - 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 the
Página 99 - And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For all day we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.
Página 119 - They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity. ' How long,' they say, ' how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— \ Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong...
Página 98 - And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.
Página 98 - DO ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west : But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Página 98 - Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have: They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck...
Página 218 - Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age - why not? I have neither hope nor trust; May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust.
Página 156 - Work - work 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

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