PENT in, and sickening for one wholesome draught Of air, -- God's gift that cities sell so dear, -- They stitch and stitch. The dim lights fall upon Their bodies, hollowed bosoms and dead eyes. Their very mirth is horrible to hear, It is so joyless! Every needle-stroke Knits into dainty fabrics that shall go Where Fashion flaunts, the protest and the pain Of ravaged lives, of souls denied their food. At last the clock-stroke! From the beetling shop The prisoners file, and up and down the street Scatter to hutches humorists call Home, To sin, to die, or, if it may be, clutch Some pleasure fierce enough to drown the thought That on the morrow they must meet again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO EMILIE BIGELOW HAPGOOD - PHILANTHROPIST by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A SENSE OF DIRECTION by KAREN SWENSON NOW AND AFTERWARDS by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK A BIRTHDAY by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE TEARS OF THE POPLARS by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS TO THE VERS LIBRIST WHO USES ONLY THE MINOR KEY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |