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That bread might be so expensive, And flesh and blood so affordable! ‘Work – paintings – paintings! My labour by no means flags; And what are its wages? A mattress of straw, A crust of bread – and rags. That shatter’d roof – and this bare flooring – A desk – a damaged chair – And a wall so clean, my shadow I thank for occasionally falling there! ‘Work – paintings – paintings! From weary chime to chime, paintings – paintings – paintings – As prisoners paintings for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, until eventually the center is ill, and the mind benumb’d, in addition to the weary hand. ‘Work – paintings – paintings, within the uninteresting December gentle, And paintings – paintings – paintings, whilst the elements is hot and vibrant – whereas beneath the eaves The brooding swallows hang as though to teach me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. ‘Oh! yet to respire the breath Of the cowslip and primrose candy – With the sky above my head, And the grass underneath my ft, for just one brief hour To believe as I used to think, prior to I knew the woes of wish And the stroll that bills a meal! ‘Oh yet for one brief hour! A respite although short! No blessed relaxation for romance or desire, yet basically time for Grief! a bit weeping may ease my center, yet of their briny mattress My tears needs to cease, for each drop Hinders needle and thread! ’ With palms weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and pink, a girl sate in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread – sew! sew! sew! In poverty, starvation, and grime, And nonetheless with a voice of dolorous pitch, may that its tone might achieve the wealthy! She sang this ‘Song of the blouse! ’ MARY HOWITT 1799–1888 forty The Dor-Hawk Fern-owl, Churn-owl, or Goat-sucker, Night-jar, Dor-hawk, or whate’er Be thy identify between a dozen, – Whip-poor-Will’s and Who-are-you’s cousin, Chuck-Will’s-widow’s close to relation, Thou artwork at thy evening vocation, exciting the nonetheless night air! at the hours of darkness brown wooden past us, the place the evening lies nightfall and deep; the place the fox his burrow maketh, the place the tawny owl awaketh Nightly from his day-long sleep; There Dor-hawk is thy abiding, Meadow eco-friendly isn't really for thee; whereas the aspen branches shiver, ’Mid the roaring of the river, Comes thy chirring voice to me. fowl, thy shape I by no means appeared on, And to work out it don't care; Thou hast been, and thou artwork in simple terms As a voice of forests lonely, Heard and residing simply there. Bringing ideas of nightfall and shadow; timber huge-branched in ceaseless switch; Pallid night-moths, spectre-seeming; All a silent land of dreaming, vague and massive and weird. Be thou therefore, and hence I prize thee greater than figuring out thee nose to nose, Head and beak and leg and feather, saved from damage of contact and climate, beneath a good glass-case. i will learn of thee, and discover How thou fliest, quickly or gradual; Of thee within the north and south too, Of thy nice moustachioed mouth too, And thy Latin identify additionally. yet, Dor-hawk, i admire thee larger whereas thy voice unto me turns out Coming o’er the night meadows, From a depressing brown land of shadows, Like a delightful voice of desires!

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