All the striving, all the failing, To the silent Nothing sailing. Swiftly, swiftly passing by! For the land of shadows leaving, Where a wistful hand is weaving Thy still woof, Eternity! ...
No rest--not one day in the seven for me? Not one, from the maddening yoke to be free? Not one to escape from the boss on the prowl, His sinister glance and his furious growl,...
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. ...