The Drudge

Repose upon her soulless face,                 Dig the grave and leave her;              But breathe a prayer that, in his grace,              He who so loved this toiling race                 To endless rest receive her.              Oh, can it be the gates ajar                 Wait not her humble quest,              Whose life was but a patient war              Against the death that stalked from far                 With neither haste nor rest;              To whom were sun and moon and cloud,                 The streamlet's pebbly coil,              The transient, May-bound, feathered crowd,              The storm's frank fury, thunder-browed,                 But witness of her toil;              Whose weary feet knew not the bliss                 Of dance by jocund reed;              Who never dallied at a kiss!              If heaven refuses her, life is                 A tragedy indeed!