i rise in the dawn, kneel and blow,

till the seed of fire flicker and glow.

and then i must scrub and blake and sweep,

till stars are beginning to blink and peep.

and the young lie long and dream in their bed

of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head.

and their day goes over idleness,

and they sigh if the wind but lift the tress.

while i must work, because i am old,

and the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.