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 black terrors and fears.     The wounds of the old years ache newly;     The gloom of the shop hems me in;     But six o'clock signals come duly:     O, freedom seems mine again, truly...     Unhindered I haste from the din.     Now home again, ailing and shaking,     With tears that are blinding my eyes,     With bones that are creaking and breaking,     Unjoyful of rest... merely taking     A seat; hoping never to rise.     I gaze round me: none for a greeting!     By Life for the moment unpressed,     My poor wife lies sleeping--and beating     A lip-tune in dream false and fleeting,     My child mumbles close to her breast.     I look on them, weeping in sorrow,     And think: "When the Reaper has come--     When finds me no longer the morrow--     What aid then?--from whom will they borrow     The crust of dry bread and the home?     "What harbors that morrow," I wonder,     "For them when the breadwinner's gone?     When sudden and swift as the thunder     The bread-bond is broken asunder,     And friend in the world there is none."     A numbness my brain is o'ertaking...     To sleep for a moment I drop:     Then start!... In the east light is breaking!--     I drag myself, ailing and aching,     Again to the gloom of the shop.